£8S000W

850

550

 

 

 

 

 

Vol. XXV.

ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN

FRANCIS S. STREET, ;
FRANCIS S. SMITH, } Proprietors.

 

 

 

 

TO MY MOTHER—IN HEAVEN.
BY MIRIAM FRENCH,

Mother, ’tis twenty years to-day
" Since you were called from earth away;
In bitter angush I did pray—
: To God to take me too.

Twas wrong; but, oh! 1 loved you so,
And my young heart was filled with woe,
I gould not bear to have you go—
And icave me all alone.

And now, tho’ all those years have fled,
Since you were numbered with the dead,
Llong to lay my weary head
Upon thy faithfal breast.

For oh, my gentle mother mild,
Fall many sorrows fierce and wild,
Thro’ all these years have bowed thy child,
In sadness, grief, and tears.

For here I find no love like thine,
To cheer me or, dear Mother mine;
Methinks the nearest to divine
Is holy Mother love.

WHO
Owned the Jewels?
OR, THE HEIRESS

Of the Sandal-Wood Chest.

Mrs. M. V. Victor,

Author of “THE DEAD LETTER,”’
“FIGURE EIGHT.”

PART I.—TREASURE TROVE.

(“Who Owned the Jewels” was commenced in Wo. 49. Back
Nos. can be obtained of any News Agent in the United States. ]

CHAPTER IX.
A LINK IS FORGED.

The warm twilight of a summer evening was creeping
on when the artist walked around the little triangular
square, of which we have spoken as facing the house of
John Daleth, with a leisurely walk, as if one out to catch a
breath of evening coolness. He was not long in finding
the particular number of which he was in search, reading
the lite sign with au apparently careless glance, as he
passed by.

“How did I come to guess, at once, that the man was a
chemist??? he asked of himself.

He was more deeply interested in the two men than he
could account for. There had been something painful in
the intensity of their expression—a wildness and wan-
ness of look, as of those who had suffered, and were
searching out for relief. He went over.and sat down on
one of the wooden benches under the locust-trees in the
park, with his face toward that house. He wanted an
excuse to visit it and fiud what manner of people lived
there. But soon his own troubles.took possession of his
mind; he was enaeting over again the scene with Camilla
in the garden, by the fountain; and only aroused from his
dream when a neighboring bell struck nine.

“J must be looking up a place to sleep,” he thought,
starting up. ‘Nothing remains for me new but a hotel.”

He lingered as he returned by the house of the assayer.
A faint light glimmered from the second-story windows;
and he saw shadows passing on the curtains,

“It is such a quiet, peaceful neighborhood; scarcely a
sound in the whole vicinity. The little park is a pleasant
spot for the eye to rest upon, and there must be a glimpse
of the river and the palisades from the windows. If 1
could obtain board here, I think I should likeit. I should
be in the city and yet out of it. Why not apply to these
very Duleths 2?

Half resolving to do so, he wandered on until he found
himself in a busier part of the great metropolis. Taking
@ room at an up-town hotel for a couple of days, he was
giad 10 go into’ the ordinary for a cup of tea, and then to
seek his bed, where tie fell into a heavy sleep trom which
he awoke with the feeling of one who awakes to an op-
pressive senseof some great misfortune, which the stupor
of sleep does not enable him immediately to recall, An}
Camilla ! she‘had thrown him overboard as coolly as she
had smothered the little rose-bud iu the fountain.

This was not The Poplars. Ethelda was not singing in
the next room; nor Camilla trailing her white morning-
dress up and down the veranda. No bay breese, stealing
sweetness from the honeysuckle trellis, wandered into his
apartment. Instead, the sickening odor of the universal
breakfast, pervaded the close air. With a sigh, he arose
to the new life—so unbearable that he felt inclined to
shuffle it off without more ado. It really cheered him
when he recalled the slight interest which he felt in tie
Duieths; to think of them made him partially forget him-
self. To find out something about these persons who
were, evidently, on a systematic search for the chest which
himself had stumbled upon by accident, offered an object

_to divert his thoughts. He had, also, before him the ex-

citement of getting a valuation placed upon the jewels.
Thus, gradually he struggled back to that interest in life
Which bat few can entirely resign so long as the life itself
remains to them.

After breakfast, he went to the curiosity-shop and or-
dered his chest to be sent to the hotel; he also wrote a
note to George asking him to order his baggage to the
same place. He was becoming reticent about the Duleths,
already. Some instinct warned him not to excite the cu-
Yiosity of the seller, by ordering from his store the chest
to be sent back to the place from which it came. He
thought best, even if ne succeeded in engaging board
with them, or found, on inquiry, that it was desirable so
to dv, not to have the box sent directly to their house.
Nor his baggage. He had a vague feeling that he wanted
to get away from everybody who knew him, even George.

Tnis little business over, he set out for the three-corneread
bit of green, called Locust Place in the Directory. It was
not until he actually stood on the steps of the assayer’s
house that he realised how foolish it was for him to be
applying here for board, with no knowledge of the family,
of the accommodations they might furnish, or whether
such a request. would be displeasing to them. However,
he was bound to apply, and they could receive his appli-
cation or not as sulted them.

In answer to his pull at the bell, a young girl opened
the door, whom, a& first glance, he supposed to be the
servant,

“3s Mr. or Mrs. Duleth at home?’

“My parents are both at home, sir; but my mother
is ill,”

What alow, soft voice! Oliver turned his eyes from
the httle white apron to the face of the speaker.

“The boy’s sister, I can see it at once. Whata pleasant
face! And how neat, threadbare, and old-fashioned
everything appears,” he thought, glancing observingly
into the hall.

“7 do not know how your father Will like my errand,”’
he began, with a smile so frank und bright that the
daughter was already prejudiced in hisfavor, “J am an
artist, and like’a quiet, airy place to work in, I was
wandering about this little green, last evening, and it
struck me that I would lixe pothing better than to obtain
board somewhere near. Your house looked especially
attractive. If your family objects to receiving a stranger,
perhaps Mr. Duleth can tell me of some other. My cre-
dentials will be found per ectly gatisfactory.”

The girl returned his smile.

“We have never taken a boarder; indeed, I don’t know
that we ever thought of it. And mother is a confirmed
invalid. Still, if you will walk in, and set down a mo-
ment, I will send my father to talk with you.”

She led him into the front parlor, a rather bare, formal
room, With the stiff mahog ny furniture of twenty years
ago, a well-worn carpet, and two pleasant windows over-
looking the park. One of the folding-doors was open
into the other parlor, which seemed a counterpart of the
first, with the addition of a piano, which had evidently
seen years of serviee. He handed her his curd. and she
went away with it. ,

When sie took it into the dingy office below, her father

 

 

 

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was sitting there, drooping over an old book, no signs of
life among his crucibles, retorts, and furnaces, and scarce-
ly any sign of if. about. himself. He was getting poorer
every day; his provision for his family grew weekly more
painfully slender; and thinking this all over, drove him
to his books, to lose sight of his own discontent and the
patient endurance of those he loved, in the company of
these old friends.

“Father, what do you think? Here is a young gentle-
man, an artist, he says; who likes Locust Place so much
that he wishes to find board init. He asks if we can ac-
commodate him.”? ; :

“Indeed,’’ said the assayer, 4 little irritable; “of course
you told him we could not admit strangers—and your
poor mother in such a condition.’

“TI told him mother was an invalid. ‘But I gave him
no positive answer. That is for you to do, father. He
seemned so earnest about it.’

“People are always wanting our rooms, just because
we have no desire to let them,’ grumbled John Duleth.
“What do you think of it, Leora?’ suddenly.

“My thoughts are rather conflicting,’ she answered,
with a dubious shake of the head. “If it would not dis-
turb dear mother, and if I supposed we could suit him, I
think I should like it very: much—for two reasons—it
would. make it more cheerful for you and Will, and it
would give us means to make mamma more comfortable.”

“It might do that, indeed—if she could endure the
noise.”

“The young gentleman will not be noisy,’ said Leora,
laughing. ‘It is not like having children to run through
the halls and make confusion. What I fear is, that we
cannot set a.tadle to please him. Even if he paid us quite
handsomely, there would be so many things to get—and
the rest of us would haveto share—,” said the young
housekeeper, musing. “If he would take his meals alone,
father, I think we might manage it. I’m a tolerable cook
—and such an economiser.”’

‘But it will make extra work for you, Leora. You are
already tasked beyond your strength.”

“O, please do not consider that. It will not hurt me to
work, if my mind is at ease—as it will be, when our
boarder makes us rich!’’ turning a brignt, coaxing face
to her father, as if she were begging for a necklace or a
silk dress, instead of the privilege of still further tasking
her young strength.

“111 go up and talk-with him. And do you come, too.
For it takes @ Woman to arrange these household mat-
ters.

The two returned to the parlor wkere Oliver Grey sat
patiently waiting. He was prepared for a meeting which
took Mr. Duleth by surprise, and caused in him a degree
of agitation that was almost consternation. For just as
vividly as Oliver remembered the tall, stooping figure,
the eager, intelligent, care-worn face again before him,
did John Duleth recall the brilliant, swarthy face of the
young man who had confronted him in the cavern on that
eventful night. A shadow, which was almost a scowl, of
suspicion swept over his countenance. Oliver saw it, and
Knew there was some reason for it. He was afraid his
host wouid be prejudiced against him by this feeling, and
said, immediately:

“Unless lam mistaken, Mr. Duieth, I have had the plea-
sure of mecting you before. Wasitnot you, with a young
gentleman, whom I encountered on the bay that splendid
moonlight night ??

“It was.”?

“When you did me the kindness to awaken me, and
thus prevent an attack of rheumatism—who knows? for
that cavern drips moisture sometimes—I did not think
we should meet again so soon. But I am still drifting
about, half-idiy, as | was then—ana after the manner of
artists—and fate has stranded me on your door-step. I
am looking for board; where I can have a nice, quiet
room, with a northern light, and the privilege of setting
up my easelin it. I can refer you to Mr. Catherwood, the
banker, and a dozen others,’

“We are quiet enough here, Mr. Grey. My wife’s health
will not admit cf any disturbance whatever. We talk low
and step light. Such a life would beirksome to a young
gentleman like yourself.”

“Not at all. Silence hasitscharms forme. And Ihave
no bad habits,” laaghingly—‘‘that is, 1 do not smoke, to
offend Mrs. Duleth with the odor of cigars, and I do not
give suppers, late at night, nor have roistering company.
In fact, I shall have almost no callers, and shall be satis-
fied with simple fare. It ig the place I like, if I could
have a room to suit me.”

Mr, Duleth was silent for quite an embarrassing time,
studying the physiognomy of his visitor. it certainly was
a singular coincidence—their meeting twice, as they had.
Yet he had not a single reason for supposing this stranger
had any knowledge of or connection with the family se-
cret. He liked his words, his manner, and his profession.
It would be like admitting sunshine to the dull place to
pave such a person in the house. Will was always spoil-
ing paper and pencils; the boy might get many hints from
the artist, it would be a good thing for the cnildren.
Hawever, Mrs. Duleth must be consulted.

‘“‘As to the room,” he said, at last, ‘tyou would have to
take this one, or the back parlor; just which best suited
you.

“I should have to take this on account of the light. But
cau you spare it ???

“We have little company,’? said John Duleth, with a
Sad smile, ‘and less use for a parlor. Leora has her
piano in the back-room. When. her mother is not too
nervous she plays and sings, But this room is seldom en-
tered. JI do not see any objections to your coming, if Mrs.
Duleth is willing. 1 will go up and speak with her.”

While he was goue Oliver made two or three remarks: to
the young girl, uoticiug what a sweet voice she had and

‘have thought of such a difficulty. We will not Jike to ask

 

 

 

——y

THE YEAR 1870 BY STREET:& SMITH, IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON, D. C.

NE

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LERMS { Zhree

Dollars Per Year. No, 52.

iZwo Copies Five Dollars.

 

 

 

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‘{ HAVE MORE THAN ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS IN THA? CHESY, MISS ASHLEIGH.”

what peculiar bronze hair. Still, she made no impression
on his miad, which was already fully occupied, not only
with memories of “The Poplars,” but with speculations
about this Mr. Diletir. Presently the iavter*vanie dow a
and asked him if he would be so good as to go up and see
Mrs. Duleth. **You must excuse her fancy for seeing you
before she decides,” he said.

“QO, that is quite natural,” replied Oliver, pleasantly;
and the next moment, like a bunéh of apple-blossoms, or
a glimpse of the blue sea, or a vision of waving forests,
long withheld, was the sight of him to the poor invalid, as
he entered her room. She smiled faintly as he came to
the bedside, taking her thin hand and bowing low over
it. There was magnetism in the touch of this fresh,
Strong life. She expected to he nervous—perhaps to have
one of her attacks after th: excitement of meeting a
Stranger. Instead, she was composed at: once, soothed,
enjoying the charm of novelty without any of its usual
dangerous agitation. Oliver had been touched with sym-
pathy as soon as he saw the patient, long-suffering in-
valid, who had once been beautiful and ‘happy, and was
pow such a wreck. His soft, tender accents, his eloquent
eyes revealed this sympathy and won Mrs. Duleth’s heart.
He took.the chair offered him, and said what he could
think of to be agreeable. He introduced subjects seldom
discussed in that sick-room. The world, in ifs brightest

of the hour, passed before the poor prisoner, refreshing
and reviving her.’ Yet he spoke‘so low, with so little
effort, she was not fatigued. by listening, and was almost
sorty when he arose to go with an apology for having
stayed nearly an hour.

This delightful impression made on Mrs. Duleth settled
the question. Mr. Grey was accepted as a boarder, and
awarded the front parlor. ~

*] shall come to tea, if you do not object,” he said, as
he went away.

Leora was in a great flutter the rest of that brignt sum-
mer day. She sent forthe woman who did such work
for them, and had the windows polished andthe paint
washed in the parlor. She would haveliked. to give the
place a fresher look, but necessity limited her decorations
to one small glass of flowerg on the tall, black marble
mantel—a few pinks and roses,’ which she culled from
her one flower-bed, occupyibg the center of the twenty
square feet of ground at the rear of the dwelling.

She tried always to have a, flower or two for her: moth-
er’sstand; but: Mrs. Duleth had, herself, declared that
Mr. Grey should have whatever were in bloom that day.

“Mamma has fallen in love with Mr. Grey,’? said his
daughter to Mr. Duleth, appearing before him, in the af-
ternoon, witha fresh ging!am dress and linen collar, and
her young face glowing with animation. ‘But, father, I

him to eat in the kitchen as we do; and you have the din-
ing-room for your Office. I see no way but to carry up all
his meals.”

“It will keep you busy, Leora.”

“But it will have its advantages. We shall. have to
provide more liverally for him than we shall dare to for
ourselves.: Don’t you see ??? i

“Yes, little manager, I see. What will you give him
to-night???

“A little bit of beefsteak, and toast, and berries, and
tea. I shall serve it on the painted china, and that, with
the silver cream-jug, father, will leok quite pretty, I
think.’ :

Oliver Grey came quite early in the afternoon, with
some of his “‘belongings;” but the main part ef his lug-
gagedid notarrive that day. He enjoyed his tea, so
neatly and tastefully served, better than he had many a
more sumptnous meal. Still, he wasvery unhappy; and, as
young people do, under such circumetances, tnagined
that it made no difference with him what he ate.

Leora was glad that he paid so little attention to her,
for she was shy, and it had been a trial to her to bring in
his supper and to take away the things.

If Oliver had thought of it at. all, it would. have surpris-
ed him to see her perform such services. But he did not
think of it.

Afterward, as he became more intimate with the fami-
ly, his own years of experience as to the shifts to which
people in réduced circumstances are put, enabled him to
understand far more than he appeared to, of the little
drama of privation and refined poverty which passed be-
fore him. He not only liked the famuly, but his interest
deepened into a real paternal affection.

However, in the very. beginning, the whole friendship
which afterward so grew and fleurisbed, came near be-
ing destroyed. by an incident occurring the. day alter
taking up his abode with the Duleths.

When his baggage came from the hotel, and as the
drayman was carrying it in, Mr. Duleth eame out. to ask
if he could be ofany assistance to Mr. Grey. When his
eye alighted upon the brass-bound box—which Oliver
would gladly have concealed could he nave done so—a
greenish tinge crept over the sallow face of the assayer.

“Where did you get that? he asked, flercely, pointing
at the object which exeited his astonishment and suspi-
cion.

“T bought it at the Indian store, only the other day,’
was the innocent reply. “I havea passion for such odd
things, and this attracted meas I was passing. lt was
rather extravagant in me to buy it,for Pm only a poor
artist, you know; but I could not resist the temptation.
You may examwme it at .your leisare, when it is once
placed in my room, if you would like, Mr. Duleth.”

Joun Duleti had “examined it at his leisure,’ but he
did not say so. His esgle eye glowed as he fastened it
upon the artist; but Oliver was compesed, and did not
blench. It was impossible, however, for Duleth to shake

 

off the feeling of some mysterious connection in all these

“happenings.” At first he felt an impulse to order the
box and its owner away; for the curse of false expecta-
tions still hung over him, distempering his usual gentle
and wisuspielons character, BC SO Nila x ae :

“Twas a fool to admit this stranger te my house,” he
thought.

Then again:

“But if he has something to learn, perhaps FI have also.
If he has come here to fish from me, as opportunity offers,

| information of the Baron’s Jercels, 1t- may be that I, too,

may play the same part toward him. Let it be diamond
cut diamond.”

As if John Dnuileth, the soul of honor, and of almost
childish confidence in his fellows, would ever have been
“sharp” enough to outwit a rogue, supposing Oliver to
have been one!

CHAPTER X.
BREAKING FORTUNES.

When De Vere Scranton left the hospitalities ef The
Poplars for a tour of the watering-places, he was soon
followed by George Catherwood and his sister. It may
be supposed that the little party was much noticed at
whatever place it stopped; for our people are always de-
lighted with wealthy foreigners; and Mr. Scranton, al-

| hough not adorned with-a title, was known to belong to
aspects, with all the news of the day, the little interests. }

a family of London merchants, so rich and so ancient as
to possess great influence over those who were.

That this associate of lords,and ladies added youth and
good looks to his attractions made him still more ccn-
spicuous.. Young Catherwood, handsome and genial,
was always a favorite; while Camilla usually queered it
wherever she went, not but that other girls were not as
beautiful, and even as well dressed, but she had that au-
dacity of will which controls those less seli-asserting.

George did not see Oliver Grey at all. before leaving:
home; he did call at the hotel to which his baggage was
addressed, but fonnd him gone and without learning his
address. He felt quite concerned about his friend, know-
ing well his passionate and impetuous temperament; but
as he did not know where to look for him, and was going
off the next day with Camilla, his uneasiness gradually
gave place to present interests.

As for Camilla herself, she was not half so happy as
she pretended to be. In the still hours of the night she
heard a cry of pain in the far-off air. The artist had a
power over her which no other human being possessed.
She loved him. almost as deeply as he loved her; but she
would not yield to the feeling. Everything for which she
had been taught to care opposed such a sacrifice of her-
self to sentiment. All the more, because she had felt her-
self in danger of yielding to the sweet and subtie mag-
netism of Oliver’s love, did she now resolve to harden
herself against it. She would forget. him—ignore the
wrong she had done him, his misery, his flight even from
her brother’s society, and lose herself in the mazes of a
dainty flirtation with Mr. Scranton. Lord Lytton had
followed them, like the meek adorer that he was, and
helped to swell the train of her admirers, much to tie
envy of other New York belles, who had always consid-
ered Mr. Lytton one of the most eligible of his sex for
the purposes of a good match. Alarmed by the superior
advantages enjoyed by Mr, Scranton, he vainky sought to
make opportunities to bring affairs to a crisis; Camilla
would never quite allow him to get down on his Knees,
or to say what he tried to say every. day of his life.

Unlucky Lord Lytton! The history of his attempts and
his failures to bring his love-affair to the point of a
proposal, would be an instructive chapter in the volume
of woman’s “arts and wiiles.’’ From its beginning, on
that perfumed summer day, when he sat alone with Miss
Catherwood on the shadowy porch of her father’s country-
house,-and held a skein of silk for her while she wound
it, and got as faras ‘silken chains” and ‘‘willing captive”’
before she broke him off with the last threagd—on to
romantic walks around, and around those classic prom-
enades.in Saratoga’s only park, stopping to Swallow Con-
gress water to moisten his. dry throat, made husky by
half-uttered sentences about “wandering side by side
through the journey of life,’ over the smooth asphaltum
ways of the best society,—to. moonlight rambles along the
sea-kissed beach at Cape May, when he strove within
himself, after fitting similes of the “‘glorious orb moving
the tyrant ocean by her smuile,’’—the elegant lover con-
stantly found himself deprived of the opportunities for
demanding a plain yes or no to his suit. Sometimes he
would lose his customary meeKness, and seek revenge
by attentions to other charming young ladies in exquisite
toilettes; but a smile or a sign could at any time melt his
indignation, and bring him back to Miss Oatherwood.
He would have been more seriously jealons than he was,
had he not perceived that Mr, Scranton’s thoughts were
not always with the fair enchantress, and that his de-
meanor, although that of an admirer and friend, was not
that of a lover. Mr. Lytton had a certain sharpness of
perception, despite his general inanity, which prevented
his, being entirely a fool or a slaye. He believed he should

‘win Camella Catherwood, despite of her flirtations with

other men; and as he had decided that she would be the
wife for him, he submitted to bide his time. These quiet,
patient, persistent people are apt to obtain their object by
not. being. In too much. of a hurry, as Oliver Grey had
been. ~ Camilla feared it, too;~-at times she felt as if Mr.

‘Lytton was her ‘destiny,’—-a destiny altogether accept-
-avle bad she never tasted the joy of being wooed by a
| man like Oliver. She did her best to attract Mr. Scranton,
| not because he was much more desirable than Mr, Lytton,

as because he had slighted her claims, im preferring her
cousin, and she could not rest content untit that mistake
had been acknowledged. So the play weut on, the scene
beings changed from time to time.

While George and Camilla were going their careless,

gay, extravagant rounds, Ethel remained quietly at
home, with no companion through the iong. hot days but
Mrs. Dill, the housekeeper; and, at evening, her uncle,
who seemed of late unusually taciturn and thoughtful.
George had indeed insisted upon his cousin accompany-
ing them,—but Camilla had not urged it beyond a luke-
warm invitation, finaily assenting ‘cheerfully to Ethel’s
declaration that so long as her uncle was obliged to
remain beliind, some one should stay to bear him com-
pany. tof

Mr. Catherwood' had never retired from active. business.
His children had long urged him to do so; but it would
seem that a certain pride and ambition of his calling left
him in it, when there was no necessity. His father and
grandfather had been merchants, as we have said; but
his father, before his death, established a banking-busi-
ness, and this if was which was the center of the present
owner's energies and aspirations... His house stood high
in the esteem of all; being considered one of the safest in
the city, doing a strictly legitimate business, with large
reserves of capital. The honors and influence accorded
to his position were a source of constant satisfaction to
Mr. Catherwood; to be the president of his own bank was
to him quite as pleasant, and less troublesome, than 1t
would have been to be president of the United States.
And to have the name of Catherwood received as the
synonym of integrity was something of which he was
justly proud.

Usually, in August, when business was dull, he took a
month of visiting; though he always: asserted that his
country-house afforded him sufficient'change and refresh-
ment, This year, however, he did not propose to leave
home at all. Therewere indications: of a storm in the
financial atmosphere; already the barometer was falling,
and the first hot breath of the tempest came seurrying
througn the city, whirling: the dust’ of Wall street ver
high. . For this was the August of 1857;. é

Ethel knew nothing of this except what she gathered
from the newspapers. Her uncle was seldom disposed to
talk business with the ladies; the thought of discussing
Wall street affairs with a-little girl like his neice did: not
occur to him. She was far happier, left to: her own fan-
cies, in that delightful old house, than: when it was filled
with company. Her natural shyness-being. hightened
by a feeling that she did not occupy the same vantage-
ground as Camilla, she did not enjoy society keenly. It
suited her to sit in the open summer-house, to gaze at
the incoming and outgoing ships with their wings spread
for adventurous. voyages—to stand by the fountain and
hear it plash—to look out from her chamber window over
the lovely world of land and sea—to wander all day
about the house and garden dreaming her sweet, sad
dreams, always of Oliver.

It is true that he had told her he loved another;. but she
knew this:before; it did not increase her sadness,. for she
never expected that he would choose her. She gave with-
out looking for a return. And she found a certain ten-
der pleasure in this, since those who give without hope of

) reward have always the satisfaction of it. Hens was the

devotion which the artist, so capricious in his moods:and
of such strong feelings, needed to calm down his tumultu-
ous impulses, to warn him of his faults, to cling to him
in his good and his bad. But Oliver did not know what a
pearl of great price was his for the asking. Ethel, so
young, so modest, so undemonstrative, had seemed to
him lacking in depth of emotion and firmness of charac-
ter.

Yet on any question of duty and principle Ethel was
reck; while Camilla changed her principles to suit the
occasion. ;

Tiiat strange declaration which Mr. Grey had made to
her as he left the Poplars troubled Ethel a good deal.
She could not reconcile it with any theory she might mn-
vent. So impossible did it appear that at times, after
pondering it too long, she would tell herself that she had
dreamed it. Finally it amazed and perplexed her to such
an extent that she resolved to banish it from her thoughts
as far as she could. f

And presently she had another matter of more vitad
and present interest to help her in forgetting it. Her
uncle appeared very unweil, He would come home pale,.
exhausted, break out into irritability if his dinner was.
not served to the moment, yet, after taking his-place at
table, scarcely tasted the delicate viands whieh Mrs. Dill
was doubly watchful should be prepared for iim. Dur-
ing the evening he would sit in bis easy chair, his fore-
head bowed in his hand, thinking—thinking. Semetimes:
he would look abruptly up and ask Ethel to sing, andi
again he would not once speak until she arose to say.
good night. He seemed annoyed by her affectionate:
anxiety. She would beg him not to’go to town that day;,
to remain at home and let her nurse him: up;.she was.
sure he was going to be ill; but he never yielded to her
coaxing.

“fam not at all sick; it is my mind that’s-ailing; L
must. ue My affairs need close attention,’’ he would an-
swer her. |

She became so uneasy as the weeks rolled:on into Sep-
fember that she resolved, more than once, te write to
George to come heme at once and attend upon his father.
Sie felt as if the son-should be some comfort:and assist-
ance when her uncle was thus harrassed and overtasked.
She never quite dared to carry out hen resolve; and
George continued to flirt and be flirted with, and to idle.
away the summer hours, while his father was enduring
a burden beyond his strength. However, the young man
was not to blame for this; he would have-“rolled up his
sleeves” and géne into work with a will, had he creamed
there was anything for him to do. Probably.there was
nothing he could do. The bank had officers.and: men
enough to do its work; and George’s brains could have
lent no aid to his father’s -im the complications which
wearied and excited it.

The storm was now descending upon-the city in-its full
force. Houses that had stood. withouta.shiver many a
previous flurry, pow shook and tottered, and many of:
them sunk into irretrievable ruin, almost.as if: an, earth-.
quake had thrown them down.

Her attention having once been attracted to.the sub--
ject, Ethel anxiously studied the files of. daily papers with
a keen interest, shuddering as she read the name of this.
and that firm among the list of failures... She saw that
her uncle was in difficulty, if not in.,danger, by, his looks,
his words, his restless pre-occupation.. The idea of his:
being in monetary embarrassment was anovelene, From
time immemorial the Catherwoods had made money and
had seldom losiany. It was a strange change; and not a.
pleasant one.

One night Mr. Catherwood came-home quite late. TBhe
dinner waited until quite overdone, Ethel refusing to eas.
until her uncie-came. About, eight o’clock. the carriage
dashed up to the dvor; and Ethel, with a shawl wrapped
about her, had been pacing the piazza and. watching for
it, gave a little cry when she saw how itl its oceapant
looked as he slowly descended from it.

“My dear unele, you are ill ?”’

“Yes, child, 1. believe L had an attack. of vertigo. at the
bank; but it is over now.”’

“And that was what Kept you-so late, poor unele.’”

“Yess my dear. Why, there’s. no need of your crying.
T told you it. was over,” half vexed and half touched, as
her soft arms clasped him by the neck. and. she burst into
tears.

“Tam so anxious abouts you now-a-days,” she said,
apologetically, drawing him into the hall with her gentie
itule hauds, “Oh, uncle, may I not write to George, to-
night, to come home ?”?

He laughed a bitter, being little laugh.

“He will come quickt¥ enough, when he sees what is in
to-morrow’s paper—or uext day’s at the farthest. What
I want most now, Ethel, is a cup. of hot, strong coffee.
No diner for me. AsK Mrs. Dill Lo-sen@ the coffee to my
study.’ :

“shall come in there, and take acup too. I waited

for you, uncle; and now you must at least eat a bit of

toast with me. Something light will not hurt you.”
“As you please, Ethel,” he said, going on into the |

‘library, or rather study, for there was no great store of
“books kept at their summer home.

Ethel ordered the toast and coffee, and followed her
uncle, He was walking up and-down, his bands behind
him; and she noticed how tightly they were clinched
together. ie did not address her, nor notice the server
when it was pleced on the table: She bad to call hig
attention to it by leading him to the table aud making
him sit dowe, Then he drank two or three cups of coffee -
with feverish eagerness. Ethel sipped a portion of her’s,
but ber eyes were busy with her ancle’s haggard looks,
Soon she ame round to his sie, beat over him, smoothed
his troubled brow with her soft hand,

“Uncle Catherwood, I wish you would tell me what is
the matter.”” : :

“Matter enough, little girl. The whole country is: break-
ing op.”

Bae you, dear uncle? Etheught your bankiag-house

 

was absolutely sufe y*

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

}

4

 

 

 

i

fy

 

 

 

 

“Ay, ay! so it wus One year ago, Etbelda. That wag
when my folly tuok possession of me. 1 was not content
with being a Catherwood and a millionare. 1 went into
outside operations, prudent enough, and which would
have been successiul enough apy season but this. This
accursed, unlooked-for crisis has ruined al. Everything
in which 1 invested has become worthless, day by day
some concern has gone py the boara, Se best to
drag meidown witha To meeh unexpected. demands
we have trench cd GReene reser 8 Capital of tiie bauk to
an alarming extent. To-day a rumor got out that we
were ‘shaky,? and ‘there was a run on us. Thank God

 
   

)

and I felt we were Safe, 1 fainted. “You don’t know whit
it is fora man im my position, and at my age; to fal
And I tell you, Bthelda, if they repeat the occurrences of
to-day—if they get another run on the bank, we shail,
fault What | hope is, that seeing our firm aspect to-day, |
confidence will be restordd.. It we an holdout a week |
Jonger the D i t ] y
pear we ca in. Already the most of the storm is”
spent; the panicis abating. Why, girl, if 1 had a paltry
hundred thousand dollars more, it would tide me over.
Just think of it! A month ago I could have borrowed
that sum in dozens of directions, with only asking for it.
But to-day other men are situated as we are. None dare
to lend, for fear themselves will need it, and uncertain
of the position of any one. J expect nothing less than
that we may go down to-morrow. It will be luck,-noth-,
ing else, if we do not, What then? Lexpeot I'shall kill
myself, Ethel. You xnow my pride. There, there! don?t
de frightened, child—I baye not done it yet. Your young
mind cannot imagine the morbid condition of mine. ‘To
fail; to disgrace my own family—were to bring suffering
and distress on hundreds of others who, having implicit
confidence in the name of Catherwood, have confided tome
their little all.” I swear, Ethel, Twill not live to face*the
catastrophe, showd it come! If I had an hundred thous-
and dollars now, 1 should feel at ease. Oh, if 1 had it
to-morrow | before thoge frightful business hours begin
again. ;
“He cast & wild look about the room. Ethel was seri-
ously alarmed for his, sanity; she was afraid his mind
might go, which would be a more terrible wreck than
that of any fortane, She went.out and asked the house-
‘Keeper for some pewerful nervine, which she induced her
uncle to take, xeinaining by hin, passing her flngers loy-
ingly over iis temples and hands, oping to sooth him by
the magnetism of her touch. She would net leave him
until she saw that he was more:calm; and hoping the
medicine would incline him tosleep, she accompanied
him to the door of his room and bid him a fond good-
snight. Phen; ini the quiet of her;own chamber, in the

we stood it; but, when the doors closed at three o’Glock, |

    

   

  

  

‘so darkness, she sat by the open window, with a scarf

>| thrown over her head, thinking until her own head achea
re Wwith the intensity-of her thouglits,
|: She recalled what. Oliver Grey had-told her: ‘that if
uo phe ever needed morey.very much, to apply to him, ana
he woulda furnish it.» Bat, even if he could do so, which
ipeemed 50 strange, when he wasiso poor as to be unable
ito dress himself comfortably, would not one hundred
thousand dollars be fur, far beyond any sum he might
have meant. when he said,.‘if youstand in need of a

| large sum of money, youhave a friend who will furnish

any needed amount? But the artist’s ideas of money
must be very: different’ from: her uncle’s. A Jarge sum

- might méan, in his estimation, two, or three, or five thou-

? sand doliars.!, That. woulda. indeed be a large sum for

io # which to asko him. | Yetit would be but a trifie compared

with Mr. Catherwood’s needs. ‘
‘jot Where lisMr Grey ?s Itwould do no harm to ask him,

ei) butd Qonot know his address, George, himself, did: not
-/s obtain it when lastin thercitys sAh, what shall ldo? how

-.go.to workito find: him? Unelesays that to-morrow may
complete the Jailuve of the ‘bank. By! three o'clock to-

morrow all may be over. Ob,1:-can Qo, nothing in one
short morning toward finding: Mr. Grey.”

.. Werrified by the, to her, dreadful aspect of affairs—pov-
erty for her relatives, who had known -notning -but pros-

*  -perity—her uncie’s wild threat-of suicide—Camilla’s des~
», pair when she should Jearn of) the catastrophe—all

pressed on the girl's) heart: with crushing weignt,- To
avert these calamities, had she Known where to seek the
artist, she would have ventured :forth at midnight, with
one of the servants for a protector, and gone to New
York to-ask him to fulfillthe promise which he had» vol-
untarily made her > But she had norclue to his: where-
abouts. ¢ : : at :

it was nearly morning before she sought her bed; first
listening at her uncle’s door, until assared, by his regu-
Jat breathing, that he was asleep. She arose before the
sui and’ carefully: dressed: herself.in a street toilet for
‘the'day. She had resolvedto go to all the large’ picture-
gs ores On Broadway,'and ‘see / if she’ could obtaim Mr.
Grey’s address, She could not! wait uutil the ordinary

so breaktast hour, for she wanted to reach: the city by theq:

 

earliest’ boat, which left at seven o’clock.. Cook gave her:
‘a cup of tea inthe:kitchen) Mrs. Dill followed her out
on the piazza, anxiously ‘studying the young face, looking
Older and graver than it should. The housekeeper had

©.) Meen inthe-family too lopg not to knew the ‘feel of trou-
> ople inthe air’ Indeed, Mr. Catherwood ‘had told her of

the doubtful condition of his affairs some days previously.

“Where on earth be you going, Miss Ethelda?”

“Dam going’ to NewYork for a few hours. Tell. my
dear uncle that] ledvé my love, and that bk would have
staid'to Keep him company at breakfast, but that 1 was
obliged to'go early to do my errand in time.”

“Good luck go with.you, Miss Etliel; but your uncle
looks so: nnwell, Pshould think you’d feel bound to stay
and see him, this morning.’ :

“Mrs, Dill,” said Ethel, her eyes filing with tears, “tit is
on fis acveunt that] am going. But please do not say
so to bin, as 1] am not. certain | cap accomplish auything.
One thing 4 shall, do, telegyaph, to. my cousins to. come
home; so you. can:see that their rooms are put in order.”

“Its about time they were home,’? muttered Mrs. Dill,
Waiching Hthel’s light figure as she hurried toward tne
boat-landing. {That child's worth both of them. A
sweet young Jady as ever breathed. 1 do wonder what
oD earth she dimagines sie can do to help her uncie!”

 

QUAPTER XI.
; YIELDING TO TEMPTATION.

. For the first week after he had established himself in
Jhisnew boarding-place, Oliver Grey idled away his time
‘in miserable reveries; He loathed the sight of his easel
and pencils. He ateso little that poor Leora imagined
‘hier dainty little meals were not what they ought to be,

and shed some secret tears on that account. But the re-

‘action which nature bas wisely provided against such ex-

cesses of feeling, began to set in. Suddenly his ambi-

tion, as an artist, revived. Deprived of love, he would’
cousole himself with another mistress, bright, if colad—

Fame.

He placed’a new canvas on his-easel, and began to
paint with.a Zeal ana persistance which hardly gave him
lane for needed exercise. He was hungry now, devour-

ing Leora’s dainties with a flattering completeness which

enred ber doubts. As his energies sprung into healthy
activity, he begau.to take more notice of his surround-,
ings. He was not long in guessing the meaning of the}
private table set before him; and the consequence was,
that he boldly accnseu bis pretty purveyor of giving him
more than be paid for—deciared thathe abominated eat-
ing alone—it made him feel like a savage—and that he
would esteem it the greatest privilege to be permitted to
take his meals with the family. “Leora blushed, and con-
fessed that they ate in ‘the kitchen. He was certain that
her ‘Kitchen must be nicer than many people’s din-
ing rooms—and so it proved tobe. For the wilful artist
nad his'way. And after the ‘first embarrassment, every
one felt the new arrangement to be.animprovement. The
artist was such a delightful talker that the hitherto soli-
tary meals became festival times to father and son; while

«Leora, be'sare, was neither deaf nor blind, though usual-

‘dy @umb: |Mr. Grey really did notseem to mind that he
‘paeto dispense with meat at breakfast, when he took it
with them. He relished his bread-and-butter and ome-

1°"? Jette, smiled, chatted’ and: made them all more content.

As soen as if became evident to his ready intuitions
that the sick lady up-stairs liked to have him call upon
her, he got in the'habit of going up, late in the afternoon,
when tired out with sitting before his canvas all day,

_ 8nd spending an hour in that neat, cheerful, yet sad sick-
yoom. ifit was sometimes an effort to do so, he never
failed to feel repaid whem he saw the dark eyes smile and

Show eugerly the invalid‘turned to him as a bright friend
varying the wearisome monotony of her days.

_ Presently; when‘hewent out, he seldom forgot to send
home some trifling luxury or necessity to Mrs. Duleth, to-
ward whom he was rapidly developing the affectionate
iAterest'of a ‘SOM Oe Poe poucus : :

. He invited Will'Duleth ‘to ‘his room, allowing him to

_ Jook on whilede ‘painted, ‘a liberty not accorded to all.
The presence of some persons fretted the sensitive artist

so that he could do nothing, but the quiet, intellectual
youth was néver a hindrance to him. i

'” Of an evening he sometimes persuaded Leora to’ sing,
‘and gang with her when his voice suited the music. Le-

ora was not very familiar with the popular music of the
day, but she could sing the Whole of the ‘Messiah’ and

. “Oveation,” so wonderful was her voice, and some old
love-songs, which she knew were exquisite.

, old Camilla, Catherwood could have been rendered invis-

ible; and transported from a Newport ballroom and set
down in the small back parlor, where the. artist turned
the music for the girl, sitting therein a gingham adress,
without a ribbon or. an ornament about her, the haughty.
queen of a hundred drawing-rooms would have been more
astonished .than amused. It would have been evident,
ata glance, that dress was all that was needed to change
this Cingerella.into as true a lady as herself; and as there
is always a possibility of unexpected godmothers, the
beauty and heiress might have been jealous in spite of

pnd herprides: so

The truth was, however, that it had not yet dawned

' oupon Oliver that this shy child was anything but a child—

tall and pretty, with marvelous bronze hair, but to him
only Mr. Duleth’s daughter, His demeanor to her and
Will was identical.
Poor, pretty Leora! She made herself look as well as
she. could, every afternoon, when the coarsest of her work
was done; but her toilets bore no resemblance to Camil-
la Catherwood’s... She had two dark calicos for morning
wear; for afternoons she had two check ginghams, one
blue, one pink; apd these were always fresh and well
ironed. She did not have even a blue and pink ribbon to
correspond, with which to tie back the burnished splen-
dors of her bronze curls; but there was generally a rose-
bud peeping out somewhere. She had always neat linen
bands at her throat and wrists, and these were cut and
made over from her father’s discarded shirt-fronts. Her
whole wealth of adornment consisted.of a really valuable
proach, which had been her mother’s, and it was with an
innocent pride.and pleasure that she fastened her bands
With it. igs
Oliver liked to have this tidy, graceful creature to wait
upon him. He liked to delight himself withther firm,

Ry > oe &
zeit
DWE —C

Fas Son oe
a a a

   

  

 

danger wil be over, aad none will’know how | w erw ) un
éto°ru 1 to Goupil’s, and was informed that it was an inopportune
The wealthiest men |

pe
“Ch

 

atptedasiaeessanh

smooth, ivory complexion and gilded hair, like that of the
ancient Ienas; but it was only as a picture would give
him pleasure. Ile thought he should like to have a friend
of his, who was a figure-painler, make a study of her
head. =

He worked a month on a small landseape patting on at
the work of three ordinary months; ama thén he took it
to Goupil’s, along with another which he had completed
at The Poplurs.- He wanted money, for he had been

| rather eXtra vaganvoft late;*and ‘the Dwléths must bé paid

evch week, In aavance. :

All this time he had heid no communication with The
Poplars. He knew that George and his sisicr were Jately
at Cape May, for he had seen their Rhames in a gossiping

“newspaper-correspondent’s arbidley accompanied, by Mr.

Scranton’s. 80 deeply had he immurea himself, so
neglected even the daily papers—living wie life-of a her=
wmit.in’ his retreat at Loctist place—that he had s¢arcely
given /a@ thought to tne great financial Gisasters which

were overwhelining the country, unfil he took his pictures

  

time to expect to seH painings,
were thinking of other things than the fine arts Im these
days.
back to his reom, sat down on the bragss-vOURd Chest, and
reflected, ; eee.

A month had gone by since he canie to the city, and in
all that time he had not once looked at-his treasure-trove.
Whenever he thought of disposing of the jewels, a re-
pugnance to the’act seized Upun him. He felt that he
should be @isposing of another pergon’s property.
shonld be robbing Kthelda Asuleigh of her just tn-'
heritance., sy

Yet some things had occurred of a very curious charac-
ter to shake his Conviction that the weasure must in-
fallibly belong to Miss Asileigh.  ” : ‘

Will had not spent vays in the artist’s room. without
making some comments on the chest, which induced
Ohiver to ask him a good many cautious questions. “The
boy was very discreet; yet, retioent as were Nig replics,
Oliver gathered from them that the Duleth’s had reasons
for supposing that jarge treasures ofa French ancestor of
their family were buried somewhere alobg the shores o!
New York Bay.

“ve got sumebody’s property,’ muttered the artist, as
ke sat on the chest, thinking it over; ‘‘and since there
remains no absolute proof of its ownership, 1 am a fool

this family; 1 cannot starve myself nor them, ‘1 cannot
sell my pictures—ihey cannot wait for their pay; there-
fore, 1 must see about the sale of a jewel or two,” ;
fle sprang up, unlocked his writing-desk, and took
from a spring-drawer a small box iu which he had placed
the precious stones, :

The cola bare room blazed with a sudden splendor as
he removed ‘the cover; rainbows glimmered about him,
rays of white light pierced the shadows, . Flickering,
glowing, trembling, burning, there lay the almost. price-
less jewels. ;

“They will buy me everything on earth I want,—except
Camilla’s love !”? he, whispered.

AS if fearing that the old feeling of guilt and unwilling-
ness would: return if he did) not quickly carry out bis
present intention, he placed the box in an inside pocket
of his coat, and went out again.

He kept his coat well buttoned, and he did not take a
stage, lt was safer to walk, with such condensed wealth
in his pocket. — ae pai

He went directly to an old and well-known jewelry
firm; and asked to speak with the principals, sending in
nis card to their private room. He had done designing
for their gold and silver ware several times, and they
nacurally supposed that he had come to apply for more
work of the same kind. After a short delay, during
which they were closing some transactions with a whole-
gale buyer, he was admitted to the little office. Usually
in walking through the gorgeous show-reoms, conironted
on every side by glittering objects.of costly beauty, the
poor artist had felt poorer than ever, as if he had no vight
to be ‘there,—but on this occasion he was strengthened
by an inward consciousness of something in his own
possession finer than anything in this superb collection.
He was quite certain that. the great ruby and the: six
largest diamonds surpassed-any jewels in these Cases, » <

It was well

   

r Or-him that he was personally known to
the firm, for he had come on a curionserrand which might
well excite suspicjon. 5 i : 5

“Good morning, Mr. Grey,’ said the senior, bowing
with polite coldness to tie young artist. .

What an immeasura
and themselves |
telescope. are ; ' aS

“Would you like to purchase some very fine}
stones??? ‘iipat te era { : ;

“Who sent you, Mr. Grey, to treat with us?” :
“Tammy own agent, J bave come into. possession, I
“hot say how, except that. it was honestly, of some
ice stones. I do notexpect you to buy them all; but
I would esteem it a rorif you would makeas close a ¢al-
culation as possible of their markebvalue,””

The two gentlemen exchanged glances. Sno

“You are surprised, of course,” said the artist, in his
blunt, frank way. “You will be still more so when you
see the gems, ‘hey were collected in India, 1 will not say
how loug ago, and have come to me from ‘an unexpeeted
source. If you know asmuch about your business as |
infer you do, you will see, when I show them to you, that
they never Have been owned or worn if this country be-
tore. lam their undisputed owner; So that you need not
be afraid to purchase. But before we proceed with any
transactions, which may take place between us, I want
you to promise, on your lionor, not, to communicate to
others the faet of your having purchased from me.”

“Phat is very strange,” observed one partner.

“Unprecedented,” assented the ovher. »

‘df you refuse, gentiemen, I must take my wares to
some other house. 1 come to you because 1 considered
you ambitious to have the bests’? iver

“QO, dow’t go away. Let us, at least, see what you
have,?? : 1 8 bag :

“Not until you promise to keep our transactions secret.”

“Well, then, if.we are satistied'that you are the real
owner of the stones, with aright to dispose of them, we
promise.?? ; Tete)

“Pve no great objection to telling you how I came to
own them,’ said Oliver, after a brief hesitation. “Except
that I dislike gossip; and would rather keep: the’ affair
quite still, If you promise not to betray my confidence 1
will tell you the whole story.” :

The two diamond-merchants, interested more than they
cared to show, gave the ‘required promise, and their yis-
itor proceeded: :

“A few weeks ago, I was out on the water, sketching,—
at least I went oUt with thatintention. Iwill not desig-
nate the locality, as that is unnecessary. Suffice it to say
that I entered a little ocean cave, under a certain sandy
cliff, where I had been more than once before, when my
attention was attracted by the light glimmering on some
metal object protruding fiom the sand. My curiosity was
excited, and I proceeded to unearth or un-sand a large’
box—of ancient and unique design, and of costly wood,
‘pound with strong brass bands. When I had freed the
hd l eagerly raised it and beliela a Skeleton; and glitter:
ipg amid the bones’ and ashes of that strange coffin, I
found a handful of precious stones. There was no name,
no date, no méans of identification. But I think the chest
could not have been buried in that spot much less than a
century.’? eit

“How curious! How fortunate for you, Mr. Grey!
Pray let us see the gems at once—we are ail curiosity |?’ ©

Oliver drew forth the box, and opening it, held) its’
splendors under tie aristocratic noses of thesé wealthy:
dealers in precious things. ‘Their amazement, followed
by delight, was not to be repressed. a :

Long their cultivated eyes gloated over the magnificent
ruby which would have been “among a Sultana’s
jewels. They could not fix a price upon it for they had
never seenitslike. The half-dozen marvellous diamonds,
suns of lustrous glory, were handled and weighed, and
admired with sparkling eyes, * © ° "+?

“We are not rich enough to buy you out, Mr. Grey,’
said one of them, with an actual sigh, after the long, de-
lighted examination. : . a

“Customers are not: plenty for gems like'these. Still,
there aré people in this city who will have the finest of
everything. “I propose ‘that we bny three ‘of the large
diamonds to-day, in addition to a ‘selection from the
smaller gems. You’ must ‘not take ‘our valuation of the
stones alone. We are quite willing you should send for
any diamond-broker in’ tire city ‘to assist us in arriving at
a fair price. As to the ruby, you will ‘have to go abroad
With that, I think. ‘Perhaps Hugenia will covet it; if per-
mitted to sée it.’’ , mee : OF Te iN

The result of their negotiations was, that Oliver Grey
walked out of the house wWith@ check in his pocket for
one hundred and. fifty thousand dollays, and’ half his:
jewels still in their box, including the glorious rmby. He
should have felt very happy; the smiling merchants had
congratulated hit, and had done him the honor to shake
hands with him at parting; he was a rich man}; he could
have a carriage like that. burly gentleman just alighting
before the jewel-shop; he could board at the Metropolitan,
instead of taking his chop with the Duletti’s. Yet with
all this “sober certainty of making bliss,” he*was not so
excited and enraptured as might have been’ expected.

Never did the little, house on Locust Place seem so
home-like—never had he felt so strong:a desire to remain
in it, as when the’ door opened to admit him, with that
fabulous check in his wallet, unguessed of by the modest

  
   
 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Lamp.

How. he relished the neat little supper of waffles and
-curled beef, followed by peaches and cream, Mr. Duleth
was a man of such. varied’ information, so pleasant to
talk with; Will was like'a younger brother, looking up to
him tor friendship and advice; Leora was one of the
sweetest sister’s ever a man had—why, he could be happy
and contept in this litue family’all his life, sharing its
poyerty, bearing its hardships, One did not need money
to make h Pe ararened by hearts like these.

He spent his usual hour with Mrs. Duleth, Leora sitting
by the wine GN, knitting socks for her father, making a
pretty picture in the dreamy twilight, with her clear pro-
fle AEH the window, her bent head ‘and drooping
curls. i :

He was happier than he had been since that hour by
the fountain, when his love had been thrown back in his
face by the haughty beauty who secretly reciprocated his
passion, but was too proud to confess it; whose soul he
could thrill with his lightest. look or word; ‘yet whose
worldly ambition was unconquerable. ;

In this modest home, contrasted with these humble sur-
roundings, he felt Camilla’s superciliousness to be more’
unworthy, more contemptible, than it had appeared in that
atmosphere of luxury, which was the breath of life to her,
but into which he had been an intruder. He said to him-
self thatif she had accepted him, Ne would never have
been happy with her. Yet the world without. her was

artist, the Geni of,

 

darkness, the sky a void, the future empty.. He would
not think of it; he would banish past and future, and

NEW YOR!

A liwie gisraayed at this prospect, Oliver walked |

Re

not to accept what Destiny has so kindly offered. Here is)

able distance'there was between him | t
ey seemed to luok at juny through a

recious |:
=... 1 6f his work, had left his easel, and Come tothe dcor, lit-

4 T never thought to take-advantage of that promise.

‘there was a run on it!—but-it held out.

little girl who failéd’to’see in the almost shabbily-attired

 

 

 

draw what consolation he could from the peaceful
present. In the fickleness of a discontented conscience
he had already resolved to send Ethelda Ashleigh the
money he haa received from the jewelers. 1t might atone
to her for his jndiflerence to her preferences, and enable
liery perhaps, to establish herself on a more equal footing
With herimperious cousin. It might, indeed, result in
her Marriuge with the English gentleman.

Only one little fact prevented his carrying this resolu-
tion into efféet oO the fohoWing day.” The-faéiewas, he
was penniléss, aud the Duleuis would’ suffer ag well as
himsel!, should hesbe dilatory in his weekly payments.
His first duty surely was to this helpless family, of which
he fad become a member, oe ;

However, he woald go to Goupil’s ‘andslearn if any |
offer, however small, had been made for hig pictures.
He went, and was told that the trade was at @ stand-still.
in a conversation which followed, op the subject of the
panic, he becatie alarmed, lest, in the uviversal crash,
the house on witi¢h his check was drawn nvigitt go down,
and he losemis own (or. Miss Ashleigh) fortune. So he
Went immediately from the picture-dealer’s to the bank,
and drew ont the amount of his check in gold.

‘ihe clerks were a long time counting out the moncy;
they had to go down into the vaults for it. Oliver did pot
suspect that in the meantime a messenger had been des-
patched to the jewelers’ to ascertain if the check was all
tight, and finally, when three sizable boxes stood on the
floor belere nim, marked $50,000 each, he Was ima quan-
dary what to.do with them. ;

“The express will call presently; better wait and send
them, by the messenger. An ordinary drayman might
(alk too much about the matter,” said the secretly aston-
ished teller. :

The artist sat down on one of the boxes and waited.
An €lectiical thrill rdn through his Trameé ‘as he ‘seated
liimselt-on.this throne.o! gold... He would have been inn-
mensely elated had he not felt so dubious about lis own
claims, Some’ men==by far the greater number—would
have never allowed this to. trouble their enjoyment one
single hour, But Oliver was made of finer stuff. He
could not quite reconcile himself to his own cenduet. Ib
seemed to him a remarkable phase of the affuir that that
winature should have veen there amid those jewels—in-
tact when its worshiper was dust—engraved in imperish-
able letters of diamenas willtiliename ETHELDA, as if it
were the fixed purpose of Destiny that the treasure
should be restored to its trne owner, this secoud Ethelda.

“Curse the name !? he muttered 0 himself, sitting ou
the box of gold; “there would have been no clue were it
not jor that, and I could havé enjoyed my possessions.”

Thus, every day, and sometimes every hour, his mood
changed. Alternately despising and coveting his new-
found wealth—resolving to give it up, and to cling to it
with all his strengih—even as we know he despised Ca-
milla, and the next gave himself more madly than ever
to his infatuation, Oliver Grey was not at that period a”
model of ‘consistency. f

Presently, as he waited in the bank, an express wago
drove up; he saw his boxes deposited therein, and hur-
ried ‘home to receive them. That night the gold was
sheltered in the brass-bound chest, a portion of its an-
cient iweasure restored to it in another shape,

 

CHAPTER XII.
ETHELDA’S ERRAND.

About noon of the following day, Leora was called up
stairs from her work of preparing the one o’clock dinner
by asharp ring of thedoor-bell, so almost beseeching inits
tremulous eagerness 28 to rather starue her. She threw
aside her work-apron and hastened to answer the sum-
mons. If she had any idea at all of what she was to
meet, it certainly did not answer to the reality. “On the
steps: stood a very young and very beautiful lady, ele-

-gantly dressed, but pale with fatigue or anxiety, or both,

looking up at her with wide-open, pleading blue eyes,
whieh filled with tears asishe spoke: Pag
“Does Mr, Gréy, the-artist, live here ?” pie
Shy as she was herself, ald astonished at the lovely ap-
parition of one. of Fasbion’s fairest daughters, Leora
noticed how tightly the little gloved hands clutched the
handle of her parasol as she asked the question,
. “He does.” Fathi a} ;
“And; O, is he at home??? > ‘ y
“T think so,’ answered Leora, tapping at the parlor

 

       
 

ped into the hall; it almost appeared as
ait for the summons to be answered. A
or shot into Ker white cheeks when she heard a
a back within ar advancing step.
“Miss Ashleigh! my de 11 is it possible?”
_ Oliver, his handsome face all aglow with the inspiration

step

    
  

    
 

 

tle thinking whom:le

 
 

Here.* AS she met his

hould meet t!
‘by 0: pleasure, the young

look of surprise, followed by

lady coloréa still more vividly, her eyelids fell, her lip
trembled; she tried to speak, but the words would not
comé. She grew red and pale, and pale and’ red, with
distress and embarrassment. ‘

“Miss Ashleigh, something is wrong,’ exclaimed Oliver,
his quick intuition informing him that she would be there
on 0 light errand. :

“On, yes, something is wrong. We are in trouble.”

‘Not Camilla!” }

His face was whiter than her’s, and his voice was
choked.

“No, no, my cousin is well. She has not come home
yet.” Whe sight of his agitation calmed. her own, “Mr. ,
Grey,?? she said, recovering all her dignity, “I have come
to you on amimportanterrand. Can 1. speak: with you
alone & moment?! _ ut ‘

She, need nof have glanced. foward. Leora, who had
closed the outer dvor, and was hastenivg back to. her
work |with:a sharp, sudden pain in her feart, such as
never, never before had troubled. her. She drew a long,
quivering breath when she had shut the kitchen door.
upon her forlorn self. ;

She knew that Mr. Grey had friends among the. rich;
that, as an artist. of genius, he was accorded more or Jess
attention by those far, far removed from ler dull world;
but this sudden vision of a girl no older than herself, so
beautiful, so likean angel or a goddess, with that inde-
scribable air imparted by her high-born movements, ac-
cents, looks, and the charm of her silken attire—this sud-
den contrast of one of her own age with herself, drove a
poisoned arrow of envy into our Cinderella’s gentle breast.
It is true that she plucked it out and cast it behind her,
but the poison remained.

\Never before had she been guilty of such bitter, un-
generous feelings, ,1t was not tat the lady was, so fair
and so graceful,;and so finely dressed. but that Mr. Grey
should see her so—should be her friend, perhaps her lover!
Innocent Leora, a child but yesterday, was gaining a
knowledge of that deepest passion of our nature—jedl-
ousy. ‘The sweet little air she had been humming to her-
self before the bell rang, was not resumed; silent and
troubled she kept on at her daily tasks; and it was. per-
haps as well, when at length the dinner was on the table,
that she found Mr. Grey had gone away with the Jady; for,
she:had succeeded in spoiling the little neal as complete-
ly as if she had done it on purpose.
©” ¥et Leora need not:so have envied Mr. Grey’s visitor,
whose distress was evident even to her,

When the artist had™le@ Ethelda into bis room and
closed the door,he said, earnestly:

| “Miss Ashleigh, I should be delighted at this honor, did

 

 
  

4 I mot perceive that you are in some trouble. Pray, what

isit? What can I do for you?”

His tender, sincere tone overcame the little self-control
that was left to her after that long morning of haste, anx-
ijety, fatigue; in trying to speak she burst into tears and
sobs: FERS “HS : i :

“O, T am wasting time,’she murmured, as soon as she
could command erself, looking up into the frank face
vending close to her's, for Oliver had ‘taken her hands
Jand was begging ler tobe calm. “Mr. Grey, I do not?
know what you will think’ol me; but I have placed reli-
ance upon what you told me at our last meeting—that
you—you ted 11%

“Would, give you money if you stood in need of it.™

“Yes, Mr. Grey. You -said'so; but it seems incredible.
Bat
you know thé crisis upon our moneyed men. O, Mr.
Grey, my dear uncle is almost insane. Ile came’ home,
last night, insuch a state! He had fainted at the bank—
He was safe, up
to last night. But he feared another panic to-day. He
Said, if they were pressed: to-day that, they should cer-
tainly fail; and then he should kill himselt.’ O,1t is dread-
ful to see him so excited, Mr. Grey. To think of: his be-
ing rwined—he, 8o proud, always so ‘rich, when 4 little,
litiie‘sum’ would carry them through!’?

“How much !? demanded her listener, eagerly.

“Ah, 1m afraid it will not seem small to you, Mr. Grey.
You could not possibly have Meant so much !? despair-
ingly.

“Whatis the sum Mr. Catherwood needs to help him
through ?? again demanded the artist. :

“One hundred thousand doliars.Y :

_After she had said if, she glanced’at him with.fear and
anxiety; he'could see‘how her eager, frightened gaze
longed; and feared to know ‘the result of this announce-
ment.

“T have more than that'sum, in gold, in that chest, Miss
Ashleigh.?? t

“O, thank
upon it.?””

“There were feasons why Ipromised to let you have
the money,” ‘he Said, suddenly growing ‘moody. “It was
to be for your own benefit—for yours, simply and solely. I
did not propose to throw away what should benefit you,
who are dependent upon your wealthy relatives, Why
should I stretch out my hand to'save Mr. Catherwood 2” he
asked, vehemently.’ ‘He looks down upon me, from his
banking-house and his’ carriage. Or Camilla? Should I
not-rather-delight to see her humbied. You know how
she treated me, Miss Ethelda. Can Ibe so heroie as. to
deny myself a legitimate revenge? Poor-and humbled,
willshe not receive the advances of the rich artist a little
less scornfully?” F

“Now, Mr'Grey, you are trying to be worse’ than you
are. Think of George. You are’ Ins friend, yet you
stand coldly by to see him ruined! 0, donot keep back
the money from any benefit it may be to me. If I had
money,’ God could not ¢onfer upoh me amore exquisite
privilege than that of devoting it to the salvation of my
nocie’ Think whathe has done'for me! He'is'my father.
O, Mr: Grey !?? with’ Glasped: hands, and appealing face,
“vou are too novle’'to ‘take revenge upon. a girl ike
Camilla 18 tak aM

“Yés, I am,’? He answered her. -“Orif I did, I should
be eternally ashamed of myself. “It was natural to think
of it, however. She shall know, sometime, that I had the
power, and refused. But, my dear Miss Ashleigh, the
bells are ‘striking noon, ‘now. If we are to help Mr.
Catherwood, it ig high time we are about it. I will order
a carriage; there is a stand not far irom here; we can be

 

Heaven! but, surely, 7 canhave no Claim

 

“at the bank in-halfan hour??..... ;
He seized his hat and dashed from the room. LEthelda

“roses.

Ra
an

 

had not space for wonder, so filled was her mind with
intense anxiety about her uncle. Afterward, she had
leisure to marvel; but now, all she had ‘thought for, was
tobeonthe way. Ina few moments a carriage came to
door; the Oliver begged Will,who was in the office, to assist
him 1n getting two of the.three- boxes irom the chest to the
carriage. “Dhey were a Good load, but the youth took it
for granted that they were Gasts, or steel-plates, or some
part. of an artist’s property—tnat they were filled with

yolnever occutred to him—nordothe burlyariver, wanbih |.

he got his orders to drive, in hot haste, to the banking-

house of Catherwood & Co., when he whistled under his |

breath afew notes of surprise, and’ went rattling on fur-

| jously under the excitement of the idea,

Ethelda thought the horses walked; wile in reality
they wére doing splendidly, considering that they were
livery hacks. ‘The sum shone pleasantly; Broadway was
thronged with its brilliant crowds; butthe young girl saw
nothing bright. Her feverish foreliead was pressed
against the dusty window of the carfiage; she Counted
the Streets as they passed them —at laSt they turned down
Wall As they pulled up, and proceeded more slowly, as
was necessary in the crowded state of the street, she
peered forwardand saw a dense throng about the steps
of her uncle’s bank. She knew, by insunct, that the run
of the previous day was being repeated. She leaned
yack in the Carriage, almost fainting. Since her hasty
breakfast at six o’clock she ad been out-in the hot sun
and had tasted nothing.Her strength was already over-
tasked; DoW it seemed that she would fail in the moment
of extremest doubt. :

“Courage Pt said Oliver, pressing her/hand,

She was swooning, but his strong touch, his hearty
voice revived her,

“You will not Jail now, at the very crisis?*?

“Wo, dwitlnot., See, ) have recovered.”?

“Will you slay in the carriage?—the crowd may be un-
pleasant.’?

“No, I will goin. They will make room for.a lady, lam
sure. I must see my uncie—must tell him.”

The excited men on the pavement aud steps, savage as
men are apt to be when in danger of losing Weir money,
crowding upon each other, to get the first chance to pre-
sent their demands, orjoining the press out of idle cu-
riosity, did make way, with more or less politeness for
the young lady, who, with face as pale as death, gently
urged her way among them.

“Sena the porter out. 1 must not leave the boxes—not
even to escort you in,” Oliver had whispered to her.

The porter was in the door. He knew Miss Ashleigh by
sight, and went down to the carriage when she told him.
The large roora into which she entered was jammed with
eager persons, all pushing up toward the teller, who was
paying out coin as fast as it could be counted out. The

Man’s face was as impenetrable as marble;. he was rather

colorless; but appeared entirely unconscious that any-
thing. unusual was occurring. The clerks kept the ac-
‘counts, scratching away at thelr desks imperturbably.
The inexorable wheels of Juggernaut rolled toward its
victims; but they appeared indifferent toitscoming. Their
calmness. made the suppressed excitement of outsiders
appear more intense. : ;
Kthelda knew the way to Mr. Catherwood’s private
office. She ptished along until she came to the ground-
glass door, which she opened, and went quickly in. The
President of the Bank and the Directors sat there in grim
idleness. Some Juuch had been sent in to them, but it
stood untasted; only the champagne had @gisappeared.
Phey all started when the lovely young lady, made bola
by the exigency of the case, intruded into, thelr confer-

‘ence; she flushed a little under their eyes. /,

eHtheldaiy?
Her uncle:‘came toward her. O, how white and old he
jooked! Despair was stamped upon his features; he

‘Gould not éyen speak reproachfully, to see her there.

“onele, you lume nol Jatleg yet 1?
The eager, girlish -yoice, thrilled them by its intense
earnestness, = ‘ ee
“Not yet," with bitter emphasis. ‘But we expect to
arrive at that crisis in about filteen minutes,” We are now
paying ont our last ten thousand dollars, com. It is in
silver, and thatgives us a few more moments grace,”
with ahollow cough. ss hey: eee
“You said a. hundred
through, uncle.” ~ y : ‘
“Ofconrse it qwould,”-cried-every voice in the little
room; they kuew not what they expected, but the young
lady must have come with a purpose, =
“Dear uncle, L have borrowed tt for you? it.is at the
door now,” CE SR ig rs ere See |
Mr. Catherwood looked at her without speaking; the
reality of her'statement refused to take possession of him.
“In what shape is it??? asked one oi the diréctors.
‘sin gold! The porter is bringing itan—two boxes full.”
Ethelda spoke these Jast words with girlish glee. She
knew that she was in time, and the weight which had
bowed. her all da. kK flight; she was no lodger even
hungry or tired—only in a state of-etherial joy and light-
heartedness; her eyes sparkled, her’ theeks grew like
The pale face of the airector caught the glow of
her own; he rusted out to authenticate her words, and to
welcome the boxes. Ethelda forgot where she was; she
sprang to her-uncle, fiung her arms about his neck, ana
smotiered him with kisses. :
Some of the spectators laughed with the tears in their
eyes; they shared in the benefits of the young lady’s loan,
and would gladly have shared in these congratulatory
caresses. ’
“God bless you,’? sobbed Mr. Catherwood, pressing his
neice to his heart. “I do not understand how it has come
about, but you have saved us all. ‘You have preserved
the honor of the Catherwoous, Ethelda.” ; ;
“A good thing to preserve,’? said Etitel, roguishly;
“and now, uncle, Lsuppose you forgive me for running

thousand dollars wonld carry you

 

 
     

away before breakfast.” - ort
“] don’t understand it, It,is a dream,” murmured he.
“T don’t understand it either, uncle; but. all I do know,
of it I will tell, you, when we get home this afternoon,
OU Will: go home soon, will you not?—you look worn-
OUTe as ent ‘ ase Z : ie hers
“Yes, if I find everything go off right, as it must now,,
Twill go home with you, Ethel, This has been a hortible,
horrible day. lt seems to me a year since nine o'clock,
this morning. But did you come alone??? ;
“+No, uhcle, Mr. Grey escorted me,
send out and ask himin. I desire to thank him.” | .
Mr. Catherwood himself went out; but Oliver Grey had
taken himself off. He did not care to meet Camilla’s
father, least of all to be compelled to listen to bis thanks.
The oil which. Etheida’s energy poured upon the trou-
bled waters soothed them as by magic. Men went away
with their gold in their pockets, a little ashamed of hav-
ing demanded it at such a time. 2
“We might have known Catherwood could not be
shaken by the crisis,’”? they said one to another.
There was gold in the vaults when the bank was closed
for the day; and belore the next day closed there was
plenty of it. People returned their deposits; men had
more confidence than ever in Catherwood’s house, which
flourished over the ruins of its neighbors.

(To be Continued.)

{GOLD Dust DARRELL; OR, THE, WIZARD OF THE MINES,
By Burke Brentford, Author of Squirrel Cap; and a True
Love Story, entitled, TRUE AS LOVE CoULD MAKE HER,
will be commenced next week.]}

———_ 0+ :

BARNACLE BACKSTAY.

e CHAPTER XXXVIIf) ©
Tt would have been a scene, not tor‘an artist of the present
day, who must paint to suit the ephemeral lightness of the
hour, or paint notat all—but for an artist of the olden time, like
phael or Vandyke, with their dense shadows, bold outlines,
bright lights—to have painted that group, gathering be-

 

/ neath cavernous cliffs amid ‘the spray, and washing of the break-

ing waves—midnight darkness al! around—only their pale,
anxious faces, their eager eyes and muftiled forms dimly seen in
the lights of their lanterns, for no unshielded light would have
burned an instant there. 9 ;) .

Down by slippery, rude paths, among the broken rocks, they
had crept to a kind of shelf fronting that part of the sea where
the dismasted véssel had last been seen.

The wind did not feel'so heavy here, because breaking against
the cliff there was areaction, like a reflux.in the waves which
break against tbe shore, bat the thunder of the surf was heard
all the louder for this very lull. :

The party heard nothing. else for’a brief. time after they
reached this rocky frontage, but then there came the sound of a
terrible crash, and’ they fancied—perhaps: 1t was’ real—that
shrieks of terror oriof pain came rolling over the dark waste at
the same instant. wens

Then all was still. pees

“She has struck—Heaven help her crew!”’ said the old man.
“For no huinan power could ever take a boat over those waters
aes human arm, unaided, help those who suffer or who

rown. :

Beside him, no one spoke.. Out beyond them all, her long
hair floating back over_her shoulders, her hands clasped, look-
ing as ifsbe would pierce the black clouds and waters with her
anxious vision, stood Trene.

Close to her, cowering down, clutching her garments as if to
ae ean from being washed away. by the ‘hungry surf, was

iy BUNA . > ‘

Further back, standing by the old man, their hands. clasped
gachtin,the other, stood Constance and. Medora, their eyes bent
on. him, as if he could tell them whether Death was gathering
in-victims now or not. or
. High ‘above them towered the cliffs—wild in front rolled and
tossed the maddened waves—it was a grand and yet a fearful

ieture. .o f ]

Suddenly a cry broke from the lips of Irene

“A body in the surf. Help me-—help me!?* she shrieked.

“And she sprang to the very verge of the rock, while poor Bill,
with a despairing cry, strove to draw her back.

A dark object on the crest of a-white-capped wave was seen.
On it came, until: the wave, breaking, deluged the heroic girl;
but she caught the body with adesperate grasp, and herself
only saved by-a gigantic effort of Silly Bill, kept it trom going
back with the foaming breaker. __

“The old man, till now ivactivé, sprang forward and received
from the hands of the Yoong heroine the dripping body of an
oa in uniform-an elderly man, with gray: hair.and a noble

ace. ie } ) ‘

“Help «me,» he cried to, Constance and Medora. “I think
there is life here yet. Help mne, and we will try to restore him
if Héaven wills it!” 5 ;

As he, with their help, bore the rescued man back to a recess
in’ the cliff, another form was ‘seen sweeping in, and acain
Irene, with a heroism few would emulate, seized this one ‘and
faithfully aided by. the boy, dragged it within reach of the

others...

“My father!” she gasped, as the upturned face came wit!
the space lighted by the lanterns. “He has been criettoaae
Now may he be saved for repentance, and not die in his sins! _

And she cried out to the others to help Steven Crane, while
she looked for more to saye. :

Once more her eye caught sight of another form,—but it dia
not come within her grasp at firsi—the wave broke, it seemed
aes out, gue, though ee to Bee waist in foaming water, with

ill clinging to her saturated’ garments to sav f
was swept back in the darkness. © Het, We bog).

Again the next great wave brought it in. Her hands almost
reached it; but, horror, a great shark, -open-mouthed, was on
the wave-crest also, and with a shriek she reeled back fainting
in the arms of the brave boy whose strength and fidelity were
taxed to the utmost to draw her back from danger.

She was saved; but a long fearful swoon kept her unconscious

I wish you woulda |

 

 

=4

until all hope of saving more was gone,—for life in such ;
turmoil of waters could not endure many seconds.

When Irene recovered consciousness, she was reclining in a
recess inthe cliff, with her head resting against the taithful
breast of the boy, while the old man witha bottle of cordial in
his hands, was looking. anxiously in-her face.

She smiled and said, faintly, fof shéawwas deathly weak:

“Thank Heaven, liye, Is my father saved ?” .

“Girl—Steven Crane issaved, and they say you saved him!”
said a hoarse voice, in the shadow of the cliff—“but if you had
known-all—al, you vever would h Saved bim!” 4
ligh:

And then alimp formand a wh aggard face crept out
fr the darkness into the strong light made by a driit-wood
fire, and looked-at her with an expression of wretchedness and
remorse, pee - X 2

“Jam glad you are saved !yshe said, gently—‘‘there was an-
other, a@ray-haired man, an officer i uniform |?

“Hes recovering—Medora and Ci ance are attending to
him—see, die is able to Walk, and they lead him this way !” said

theold man. et 2 é
At i the admiral!” said Steven
fms of two young girls,

   
 
  
 
 

  
  

  
  
  

   

>

 

 

  

   
 
 

—it is

 

 

Ed wanr Hardy—must I meet } m, and yield hospitality
to dimP*™ muuered the old man. ‘‘Heaven keep all bitterness
from my soul now—fo lat He spares, J must not evrse }”

The officer came slowly forward into the light until his eyes
fell on the upturned taee of Jyene. 2

For an instant he gazed upon that face as if spell-bound, while
the color which lite and reviving stimulants had brought to his
own face vanished, leaving it white as snow,

Then, he gasped out a hame.

“Delia Beaumont—Delia—alive, oh Heaven, what does this
mean? My wife—my poor wife?” :

And he dropped on his knees by the side of the astonished,
girl, and bowed his Head in his quivering hands. e
“Your wife—was Delia Beaumont your lawful, wedded wiie,
Sir Edward Hardy ?” cried Steven Crane, pushing forward and
aoe his hand almost rudely on the shoulder of the English

officer.

“She was—she was!” groaned the admiral. “False pride
kept the secret till it was too late for her happivess—but—but it
is true, and the certificate with her likeness is NOW Worn’ next
miy heart, ma sealed case !”” .

“Then am I the most aceursed wretch that walks on earth.
My act—robbing her of her child out of jealous revenge, broke
her heart. Ikiuled her—I killed her!” , 2

“Wretch !—who then is this ?? cried the admiral, as he stood
ereet once more and looked down on Irene.

“Your daughter and her’s! The child that I stole from ihe
nurse. ‘See, she wears her mother’s likencss, even HOW, UPg@r
her neck!” ¥ s

And Steven Crane liffed up the miniature which he
Irene, before. e ,

“Yes—ie speaks the truth. I but befiold my lost Delia in her
child. My life has been sived by my own daughter)?

And dropping once more, weeping on his knet’s beside Irene,
the father clasped her in hisjayms, 3

Trembling, for she could scarcely realise this new relationship,
poor Irene looked in the furrowed face of him who held her,
and at last sobbed out: :

““Ves—yes, my heart tells me that you are my father; and now
I know why some unseen sourée, Some ‘impulse’ l could neither
understand nor resist, forced me outin the wild. storm to save
the lives of the heipiess who might drift.uvon the shore!”

“Why did you save me—me, a wretch who-has darkened al}
your young life??? moaned Steven. Crane.

“Because Heaven willed it!’ said the young girl, reverently.
“You have been good to me, though sometimes rough, Steven

    
 
  
 

had given”

Crane. All the wrong you have done me Liorgive. What you-f

 

have done to my dead mother

“Oh Heaven, child, had you known‘how T loved her before
he came-in my way!” f . ‘

And Steven Crane sobbed as with a breaking heart. ;

“Do you know me, Edward Bellenden?” asked the old man,
as he now, with a stern, steady gaze confronted the admiral.
“Youstart, because I address you by the name which was yours
before you: became a peer. Do you know me?) ’ -

“You wear the look of one whom I have known in years gone
by. Yet Ido not know you.”

“Do I wear the look of Kdgar Courtenay—the: father of this

girl's mother?” and he pointed to Medora, 4. op

“You do—yes, you must be he!” said the a dmiral, regarding
him earnestly. Ab Ee Oe ma 4

“And can you look calmly on her, remembering the fate of |
Henry Trevors, this girl’s tather, the husband of my daughter?’
continued the old man, fiercely. , “

“Henry Trevors was my, friend,” said the admiral, calmly.
“Tt was rei orted that he tell in a duel with me, but it was false,
for I was far away when he fell by some other hand than mine,
as Liproved on my return to England, alter hearing the report.”

“Man—can this be proved? Have I, for aii these long years,
done you this injustice in the bitterness of my heart??? Cried the
old man. A oe a

“You have—you have!” said Steven Crane, wilh a hollow
groan. “lraised ithe foulreport to rum him, knowing he was
on the point of jeaving England on secret service, which would
keep him absent for a tine. And I too delayed his return while
I stole her.child and broke poor Delia’s heart. Fiend hat Law,
the abyss of elerna) torture yawns forme, and there with blood ©

 

 

upon = hand, the blood of Henry Trevor, as well as hers—I
will gol”

With one wild look of despair—one glance back at those whom
he bad so wronged, the wretched man rushed madly trom among
them, and® plunged into“the wild surges'and was swept {rom
their sight—never, never to be seen in mortal shape again. .

“Oh, horrible! : Horrible??? moaned poor Irene, as she held
her white hands over her closed eyes. 2": : i

‘Ttisjust. Heaven saved him that he might do justice to the —
living—He has taken him away m fearful retribution for his —
deeds, Heaven have merey upon his erring’ sould said the old
man, solemnly. 3

Then turning to the admiral, he said: ny

“Sit Edward, Ihave wronged you.’ I.crave your pardon."

_ “Edgar Courtenay need not ask: iorgiveness of one himself a
sinner. What, he who was Edward Bellenden, and is now —
known as Sir Edward Hardy;can do to aid you, he will.
Wrecked, I fear the sole survivor of my crew, and on ahosiiue —
shore, I am at present powerless—butlife here and property |
across the water's, are yet ming, ene both are at.your service.”

“Tam very old,older in sad experience even than in my
years,” said Edgar Goureehiay? “Feannot last much longer) I
shall néver Jeave the home I haVe made here on tlisJonely isle
the dawn of the coming day will soon show you how I lave
loved and beautifiea it, because it was a refuge trom the alls of
what l deemed a cruel world, But my poor Medora, my lost
davghter’s child, who will have no protector Jeft whenTam -
gohe—for her 1] ask a man’s protection. Sir Kdward Hardy, you.
Nave found a daughter, let my poor grandchild be to her as a sister
—lev herbe your ward when Tam gone. She is not peor, Money
and rich jewels here have Lhoarded carefully forces, Bstates,
too, ave hers aeross thé. broad Atlantic, See that she has her
righis when I pass away, and T will not regret tor the coming
hour which calls me hence.”

“7 will be as kind and just to her in ali things, as to my ow gs

dear child,” said the admiral. i

“Thank you, oh my father, she shall be my sister,’’. said Irene,
drawing Medoraito her side. ; , ;

“And this other, maiden—is she alone, for silent and reserved,
she sits and.seems to wonder at all these strange events,” said
the admiral, looking at Constance Morley. Paes iam

“fam an American, my lord, the sister of one, and the! be- —

trothed of anotherof your armed foes!” said) Constance, with
dignity. ‘‘The privateer which fought and captured one of your
vessels, is commanded, if he yet lives, by one.weli able to pro-
tect and care for me.” ; i Ace
“Heavens—how blindIlam. That proud look tells me at once
our relationship to young Morley, my late captor.’

“Yes, my lord, he is my brother, it he be yet living, and Cap-
tain Backstay is to be my. husband.” } re i
“Both were living when the combat, closed,,for I watched
them.-on the deck of their vessel as she passed:the fleet before

the gale Came on.” : :

“Ypank Heaven for that. I shall not hate you now,” said -
Oonstanée; and she Grew nearer to Irene‘irdém whom she had
drawilaway the moment her relationship to the admiral was
made known. j

“Hale not him or me,dear, dear Constance,” cried frene. N&Y

“For it a daughter’s prayers can influence a father’s course, he
shall no longer be looked on as your enemy. If my words and
tears can touch his heart, he will resign’rank and position in a
service where, if he retains both, he'must uphold tyranny!and
wrong and strive to make slaves of freemen )’? ; { a
“What, is my childa rebel?” asked the admiral; but a kind-
ly, look. in his eye and a smile on his face told her how he meant
the question. ae ji {

“So much, my father, that if I must choose sides and homes, .
give me america and freed@m in poverty before England and
tyranny with wealth and titled grandenrdo back them!” >

“You are a brave child, and Isuppose your old Jather must
yield, to you in this. But I may soon be a prisoner to those —
whom you defend so heartily.” a Y af

“fhey will not take you from a daughter’s loving arms, my
father.: And now, if 1t pleases Mr. Courtenay—since that is his
name, had we not better go up to the cottage above? We can
do no more good here, and from there as*soon as the day-dawn,
now close at hand, comes on, we can see what has become of
the Gray Eagle, and it she has ridden out the storm in the an-—
chorage she gained.” e

“Yes, we will go,’ said the old man.
its terrors brought-a peace to my soul I scarce had dreamed
again to know.’ Come, my children, come, the old: man will go
up to his resting-place easier than be came down, for his heart
is lighter than it has been for many. years.”

They moved on, Medora and the old man in front, Irene with
her father next, and: Bill quite obsequious in assisting Con-
stance, who in her bold declaration of her American teelings
had risen to the top of his belief in patriotism.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

The party were soon beneath the cottage roof, which had so
long sheltered Edgar Courtenay and his orphan: niece, and
now there was more real happiness beneath that roof unan had
ever been felt there before.

Medora laid out her table, and ths food upon it did not go un-
tasted as ithad the night before. A

Then cheering talk and gentle song followed, whiling away
the night hours until the welcome dawn once more appeared.

_ It did not come enrobed in cloudy and drizzling tears of rain;
it came forth in sunlit glory, for the storm with spent force had
swept on, leaving its wrecks and marks behind. :

The whole pariy, when the rosy light stole in upon them
through the vine-latticed windows, adjourned. to the look-out
perch among the rocks, from whence theyicould:glance over all
the surrounding waters. ;

Far as they could see out on the ocean not 4 sail was in sight.
But snug in the shellered anchorage to which her brave com-
mander had piloted her, lay the Gray Eagle, and near her was
seen the dismantled‘hull of the captured Hornet.

Men were busy below and aloft, repairing damages on board
of the privateer, others were clearing; up the wreek of the

rize, : ‘ ; :

“Safe—safe |”? said Constance, who. had brought a glass from
the cottage. ‘I see them both, Oh, happy1lam! But they.
must know where we are. \ We will wave our handKerchiets.”

“They will hardly see them Neré, if indéed they should glance
up at what must look to. them Jike barren and uninhabited
cliffs. The young man may take my. smallest skiff and go and
tell the commander of theschooner that he has, frienus here
who would like to seé him,” said Mr. Conrtenay. '

“And an enemy, who can appreciate his.chivalrous valor and
honor his skill as a Seaman,” added the admiral.

“Haven't you got no message tew send, Miss Reney?” asked
Bill, with a comical look out of his gray eyes.

“Yes, Bill. As your master has gone a road which you may
wish to follow, tell Lieutenant Morley ‘to enlist you in his
marine corps, for that will give you a fair opportunity.””

“Gee-whittaker-Jewsharps, Miss Reney! That il suit me tew
He see for if I list under him, ’m sure tew always be
nigh you! ‘ ‘ 7

And the boy hurried off, to escape a slap from a little but not
a very light hand, as his cheek had known more than once in
his life time. . :

Soon the light boat was seen emerging from a narrow, almost
hidden channel winding out from the basin in the rock, and
holding its course toward the schooner. ;

The party on the island saw Bill reach the schooner’s deck
and communicate his errand to her commander, $

Quickly was the latter seen to raise his glass toward the
island, and fluttering handkerchiefs reiterated to him the story
just told him by Silly Bill.

A hurrying to and fro on the schooner, told of new orders—a
boat lowered hastily, was all as quickly manned, and long be-
fore Bill could get into his boat to pilot the way, the two officers
had shoved off and were on their way toward the island.

But Bill knew they could not make a landing without his as-
sistance, so he hurried on, and in a little while reached the
rocks where they were in vain seeking the channel. |

“Tt takes a fool tew help wise creeturs once in a while. That’s
acomfort, by Chris’mas!” he muttered, as turning an angie
they had not seen, he entered the hidden channel and led the
way.

A few moments later, and there was indeed'a happy greeting.
Launcelot Morley and his sister embraced each other, and then ©
the young officer resigned her to Captain Backstay, while he
ee aba who stood blushing and trembling with mingled

ear and joy.

For now that she had found 2 father, she felt that even in
her love, a reverence to him was necessary, and he might
trown on her love, fora man who, in one respect, must be con- -
sidered an enemy. \

 

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He noticed her backwardness and confusion, and for an in-
stant it pained tim. But she saw the cloud on his face, and
feeling he should know all, said:

___ Mr. Moriey, dearest of friends—this is my father!” and she
took the hand of the old admiral. :

“What, Sir Edward Hardy?” cried poor Launcelot. ‘Then
the: sooner Idie the better, for he’d as soon give you to the
sharks as to a Yankee privateersman like me.”

ts brave as he had proved himself, the tears started in his

“Avast, there, youngster!” cried the old admiral. ‘No blub-
bering without cause. If you love my girl, and she loves you,
do you think I'll keep you apart because we’ve sailed under
different fiags?. I’m meither:a'tyrant nor.a fool, though I may
have served one or both. Socheer up. and pat on a smile in
place of a frown, and.be cheerful. I’m a wreck bn adee shore,
my frigate gone, and if you say the word, must consider: myself
your prisoner.? f

“We don’t say the word,” said Captain Backstay, to. whom
Constance Morley had been explaining affairs. ‘The storm,
and not.the fate of war, has thrown you where you will bean
honored and respected. guest until you choose to leave us.”

“Then I am afraid it)will be some time, from the looks of
affairs around here,” said the admiral, who saw that Launcelot
and Irene were very closely engaged in a low and tender cou-
versation. “I shall never raise a sword again against the flag
you serve, and my future lifeshall be devoted to making her
happy who 1s the image of the only being on earth whom I
ever loved.”’ ae

“Were all, Englishmen like you, noble admiral, soon would
our Lwo countries be at peace and the mission of my Gray Eagle
be more congenial to my own desires—but why does this old man
regard me so-strangely ? He has not taken hiseyes from me since
T landed.” : ;

“Who—in Heaven’s name who are you?” gasped the old man.
Then turning to the. admiral, he added: “Do not you, Sir Ed-
ward, see the likeness???

The admiral looked intently at Captain Backstay, and as he

‘® did so, a remembrance flashed over hi: mlod.

“Yes—the image of Henry Trevor, darkened, perhaps by the
reflexion of sunand wave—yet it is the image of Henry Trevor
whe stands.there,’’ :

“Trevor—Trevor. .That name sounds asif Thad heard it be-
fore!” said Backstay, looking from one tothe other. ‘

“Who are you2?; Where were you born?” asked Mr. Courte-
nay, eagerly. i

“Alas!.I know not. One-who was to me alla father.in care

- and goodness, old Captain, Backstay, picked me up in this very
bay, clinging, as he said, like a baenacle to a spar, afler a fearful

_ Storm. He reared me,gave me his own name, and when he
died left me al! his property.”’

“And this was nineteen years ago—nineteen years since the

_£00d man picked you up?” asked Mr. Courtenay,
y “Yes—why do you ask, old man? Know you aught of my
arentage ?”?

“One question more, and I will answer that. Is there a deep
scar on your right breast, where, when a child, you received a
severe gash by falling on a picket?”

“Phere is a long, deep sear on my right breast, which has been
there ever since can remember, and came I know,not how,”
reptied Captain Backstay. : f :

“Oh, Heaven, I thank the Ged of all Mercies for “this / cried
the old man. ‘‘Medora—embrace your brother! Now can dic
in peace, for you have a protector in whose veins runs blood like
one Own, as proud as the proudest may boast. Hardy—hold,

old me up—thi3 happiness is too much!” .

The old man reeled and fell back into the arms of the admiral,
Swooning away in the fuliness of his joy, ;

And it seemed as if he would die, for it was long before they
could restore him to consciousness again.

But he luved—hwved long enough tosee peace restored between
America and his native land—to bless the union of his beloved
grand-son with Constance Morley, to see Medora beloved and
united.to,a- brave and true son of the new Republic, and to join
the old. admiral.in happy congratulations when Irene and Laun-
celot Morley, were made one. re ;

Silly Bill was wise enough never to get married, but Jack
Ghost wedded the “‘widderand owner” of the Hen and Chick-
ens, and so,our story

  

ENDS, ‘

{[GoLp Dust Darretx; or, The Wizard'of the Mines, by Burke
Brentford, Author of Squirrel Cap; and a True Love Story, en-
titled Tow 4s Love Coutp Maxe Hur, willbe commenced next
week.] .

 

Our Knowledge Box.

A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING,

 

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
Grocer.—To Gur Rip or Ants.—Procure a large sponge, wash it
well and press it dry, which will leave the cells quite open;
then sprinkle it with fine white sugar, and place it near where
the anis are troublesome. . The ants will sovn collect: upon the
sponge, and take up their abode in its cells. Then dip the
sponge in hot water, and set the trap over and over again till
you get rid of the nuisance, Powdered borax is also good......

. D.—See No. 39............ Rusty Pin.—l, See No. 39. 2. The
accent is on the last syllable—Lo-thair.......Mary White.—Dyine
Crimson OR Kost Pinx.—One drachm of aniline will color as
much as one pound of madder, and impart a more beautiful
shade; inclose the aniline ina muslin bag; fill a brass or tin
kettle two-thirds full with hot water; rub the aniline out in the

“water the same as bluing outof an indigo bag; immerse the
articles from twenty-five to thirty-five minutes; wring out and
dry. Tne dye is absorbed so easily that care should be taken to
preventspotting. No mordant is required, though it willimprove
‘the color to wring the goods out of strong soap-suds before putting
themin the dyé. This color is permanent for woolen orsilk......
Housekeeper.—MANAGEMENT OF BRooms.—If brooms are put into
boiling suds once a week, they will become very tough, will not
eut the carpet, last much longer, and always sweep like a new
broom. A very dusty carpet may be cleaned py setting a pail
of cold water out by the door, wet the broome in it, Knock it to
get off all the drops, sweep a yard or so, then wash the broom
as before and sweep again, being careful to shake all the drops
off the broom, and not sweep far ata time. If done with care
it will.clean a carpet very nicely, and you will be surprised at
the quantity of dirt in the water. The water may need chang-
ing once or twice, if the carpet is very dusty. Snow sprinkled
over acarpet and swept off before it*yhas time to melt and dis-
solve, isalso nice for renovating a soiled carpet. Mois‘ened In-
dian méal is used with good effect by some housekeepers.......
Rose of Kendale—Wow to CHoose A CANARY.—First, entirely
green birds, orsuch as are brightly marked with green, are
usually very strong, and, in consequence, their voice is often
loud; secondly, such as are of a yellowish
brown, or dark yellow, are weakly, and seldom breed; thirdly,
the variegated kinds do not often have prettily marked young;
fourthly, such as have red-eyes are weak; and, fifthly, should
birds With a crest be preferred, the purchaser inust be careful
that there are no bare spots on it. In order to insure a good
sinving canary, it is necessary to procure such as have parents
gifted in that respect; and during the course of instruction the
pird should not be allowed to hear the sgng of finches, larks,
and nightingales, asthe notes which 1t would thus acquire
would be unnatural, and therefore soon forgotten. A writer on
the subject, says: ‘‘The canary will learn tunes played upon an
organ with little difficulty, but after a time often perform them
inaccurately. We tried the experiment of placing the pupil
with two old males, and have always found it prefer to imitate
the bird whose song gives it the least trouble, and thus it ac-
quires shakes and thriiling notes with much greater ease than
the filute-like tones, or deep-rolling song of the nightingale. A
canary belonging to an artist residing at Bordeaux, (France),
possesses the remarkable faculty of singing, whenever it feels
disposed, with the beak closely shut, producing its song, which
is very clear, apparently from the top of its throat, and giving
the effect, as in véntriloguism, of a voice proceeding, not from
its owner, but from some distance.”’... .B.—It will answer..... ‘3
“Turcos? and J. E. B.—See answer to “Thos. Alexander’ in No.
Abe tae 7 J. P.~WATER-PROOF AND FIRE-PROOF CEMENTS. Wa-
ter-proof cements for mending broken crockery are usually not
fire-proof, and fire-proof cements are. seldom water-
proof, The following, however, isclaimed®*to be ‘both: Mix
two ounces of milk with two ounces of vinegar. It will curdle.
Separate the curd from the whey, and mix the latter thorough-
ly with the White of anegg. Finally add quick-lime through a

. sleve Bntil it isas thick as paste. The cementis then reaay for

USE ..... Corn Cobs.—See No. 42........ Cask No. 1.—To Make Gun-
prowprER. Take of refined niter, 75 parts; sulphur, 10 parts; best
refined willow charcoal, 15 parts. Powder each separately,
and mix intimately with 4 little waterin a mortar. The paste
may bé rolied out into thin rods, cut into grains and driedon a
board in the sun........ Capt. Storme.—Consult a physician......
Whiskers.—Shave frequently......Pickwick. —Pure lime-water 1s
one of the best dressings for ulcers. ...... 0.
ing of the person named .......IJadeleine.—RESTORING WHITE
FLANN¥L.—To restore the origiial appearance of white flannel
which has turned yellowisn by lying for:a long time, or by
wear, soak for an hour in a weak solution of bi-sulphite of.soda,
then add a little dilute muriatic acid, stir well and cover the.
vessel for twenty minutes. After this, take the flanrel out,
rinse in plenty of soft water and dry in the sun. The flannel
willbe purely white....Printer.—Apply at any book store......
B. F. L.—Warerprooring Chora —Imbue the cloth on the
wrong side with a solution of isinglassy alum and soap by means
of abrush. Whendry, brush on the wrong side, against the
grain, and then go over with a brush dipped in water. This
makes the cloth impervious (for a long time) to water, but not
to air..... H. LZ G.—Hard soaps are made by boiling oils or fats
with a lye Of caustic’ soda: “See No. 40...... Henry Lyle.—1,
Lemon juice. Apply it to the face with a soft cloth. 2. sarsa-
parilla will rid youofthe result of the various blood impurities
how annoying. you. We kuow nothing of the merits of thespe-
cific referred to,..... ‘W. H.H.—Yhe recipes would require too
much space in this column; otherwise we would be glad to
oblige you...... J. & Flash) To make GunpowprER, take of re-
fined niter, 75 pars; su/phur, 10 paris; best refined willow
charcoal; 15 parts. Powder each separately, and mix intimate-
ly witha little water in a mortar. The paste may be rolled out
ito thin rods; cut into grains and dried on a board in the sun.
On the large scale the grains are made by forcing the paste
‘through-sieves, dried by steam heat and polished by ‘rollitis
against each other in a barrel... Mcal powder is ungrained pow-
der. 2. Sweet oil. 3. Weto not know ‘the ‘party referred “to.
xX. A. P.—-Plaster of Paris, of the consistence. of batter
Esculapius.—The new compound called chloral is formed
by the action of pesseouy ary chlorine gas upon-pare alchohol.
Tne hydrogen atoms liberated ‘are not«replaced. entirely by
chlorine atoms, since the chloral contains two atoms of carbon,
three of chlorine, and one of oxygen. ‘In a short tame it under-
goes a spontaneous change, but its hydrate is a crystaline solid.
Chioral has been. subjected’ to numerous experiments in this
country and France, and it is pronounced the greatest blessing
of the age. M. Bouchat, who hag investigated its properties
with peculiar care, says: “‘As a therapeutical agent, hydrate of
chloral is the sedative of violent pain in gout, of the atrocious
sufferings occasioned by nephritic colic and dental caries; in a
’ word, itis the very best of anesthetics administered through
the stomach. Lastly, it is the quickest and most efficacious
remedy in intense chorea, when it 1s required to abate speedily
a condition of restlessness which is in itself a peril to the life ef
@ patient.”

att e 8
George W. Laird’s
Buoox or Yours, or Liquip Peart, renders the complexion clear,
brilliant, and beautiful, the skin soft, smooth, and delicate. This
delightful toilet preparation is used throughout the world.
Thousands of testimonials have been sent to the proprietor, in-

dorsing and recommending this purely harmless toilet article.
The chemical analysis of Professor C. F. Chandler, Chemist

to the Metropolitan Board of Health, hus been submitted to Dr.

Louis A. Sayre, one of the mgst eminent physicians in New

 

 

 

York City. He has pronounced it free from any substance in-
Sold by Druggists’ and fancy-goods stores
everywhere. 5 ) ‘

The Gentle Way is Best

in dyspepsia, liver complaint, and constipation, the diseased
organs are preternaturally sensitive and tender. Do not use
them roughly. An alterative like Tarranws EFFERVESCENT
SsirzeR APERIENT, that tones, corrects, and purifies the system
without undulyexciting or irritating either the stomach, thefliver,
or the bowels, is the true specific in such cases. Reason teaches

his, aud experience confirms it.
ne Pee SOLD BY ALL DRUGGISTS.

jurious to health.

 

&.—We Know noth-

THE SEASONS.

 

BY JENNIE STOVIN.

 

Spring is dancing, Spring is dancing,
All upon the earth is glee!

And an infant’s on me glancing—
God has given it to me.

Summer's leaving, Summer’s leaving,
Bearing flowers on her trail;
And I’m sitting weeping—grieving,
O'er my baby, weak and pale!
Autumn’s flying, Autumn’s flying,
For they’re bearing home the corn;
And my darling child is dying,
_ Its brief life will soon be gone t
Winter’s weeping, Winter’s weeping,
Tears of snow and chilling rain;
And my little babe is sleeping—
God has called it home again !

MY COUNTRY EXPERIENCE,

BY CLARA AUGUSTA,
CHAPTER I.

I was “born and bred” in acity. I was the only daugh-
ter of one of the wealthiest importers in my native place,
and had received every advantage that money could pro-
cure. My mother’s health was feeble and we had always
within my recollection, kept a housekeeper.

I had been reading, one day, an essay on the education
of woman, and inthe closing sentences there occurred
this paragraph—“No woman’s education can be com-
plete unless she be thoroughly acquainted with the art of
housewifery!’?. Now you may be assured, this opinion,
coming as it did from so important a person as the author
of a book, fell witha great weight upon my mind, and
set me to thinking.

What did I know about housewifery ?—1I smiled as I ask-
ed the question. Mortified enough, I was ebliged to con-
fess that I did not know a turkey from a chicken, and ‘had
not the remotest idea of the manner in which the delicious
apple was lodged in the very heart of an apple dumpling.

Just as I was about deciding togo to my room for. a
regular ‘school-girl cry,’? Aunt Hatty and my mother
came in from an extenSive shopping expedition. Aunt
Hatty, good soul, looked all the surprise she felt, as she
peered at me curiously through her spectacles.

“Oh aunt!? J faltered forth, “I don’t know anything,
no, not one thing,’? and I bowed my head on the arm of
the sofa and sobbed.

Aunt Hatty laughed outright, and my mother smiled as
she inquired how long I had been so ignorant.

T explained all to them, and throwing myselfon their
mercy begged them to tell me what was to be done.
Aunt Hatty consulted with my mother in private, while I
petformed tragedy on the sofa, and the result of the
whole matter was that which I most wished. I was to go
with Aunt Hatty to “Pine Glen,” Uncle Carroll’s farm, and
under her guardianship become acquainted with cooking,
washing, churning, ironing—in short, with housework.

Papa’s consent was readily obtained, and that after-
noon I set out for Pine Glen with Aunt IHatty in her pret-
ty buggy. The ride was delightful, and I was in fine
spirits,

Uncle George and cousin,Charles were rejoiced to seeme,
at least they said so—and 1 saw no reason to doubt their
declaration. : ; ;

Uncle and Aunt Carrot, cousin Charles, and Betsy, a
maiden sister of my uncle, composed the family at Pine
Glen. There were, besides the family circle, several
“work folks,?? and a smart little girl, who assisted about
the house work.

Aunt said that work never was plentier, and there was
ampie opportunity to bring forth my latent energies.

Isiept soundly that night in the great spare chamber—
the state-room—of Pine Glen, with its clean. white floor
and snowy window hangings. The song of a dear little

ird close by my window, ina: tall pine, awoke me quite
early; ad determined not to be though indolent, ; sprang
up and making a hasty oilet,.l consulted: my watch and
found it was only half-past seven... Firmly convinced that

 

 

“not a soul was up, I stole noiselessly down stairs, to avoid

disturbing them, and entered the dining-room. The
morning meal had evidently been on the table, and the
family had,to allappearances, partaken. Mortified enough,

dy laughed as she saw my consternation and begged me
to take my breakfast as. soon as possible, for she wished,
to ‘clean up.’”?. That morning’s experience taught me
that seven o'clock ig not considered an early hour in the;
country, ibwW
As it was “baking day,?’ I prepared to received my first
lesson in bread making, Dressed in one of my aunt’s strip-
ed gingham dresses,and with Miss Betsy’s ‘‘tow and linen?’
apron, I commenced operations in right good earnest.
First, there were the ting to be buttered, I showed my
consummate skill by merely buttering the outside and
leaving the inside clean. Aunt Hatty laughed until the
tears fellfrom under her spectacles, at this inversion of
household laws, Tomy credit be it said, I did not des-
pair, but set courageously to work to:remedy the mishap,
I took off my rings and laid them away, rolled up my.

sleeves above my elbows, and put my hands valiantly into

the hot dish water, and scrubbed the tins clean. Then fol-
lowea drying them—after which I performed the oiling
process to aunt’s entire satisfaction.. The bread was to
be mixed with hot water, and the yeast had been put in
the night before, ‘‘conseqnently,’’? Miss Betty said, “it was
big enough to knead.’?. Kneading was a tern: 1 did not
exactly understand, so I applied to Aunt Hatty for an ex-
planation. ;

“Lah! Marian, don’t you knew how to knead? Why I
shall begin. You don’t know much, after all your boara-
ing-schools and pianner lessons; why, child, put your
hands right into the midst of it, and mix together till,
there aint a single speck of dry meal to be seen.”?

I followed directions implicitly, and af the end of half
an hour the mass before, me had not changed the least
particle, so | concluded that it must.be kneaded enough
and I took it to Miss Betsy for examination. That ven-
erable woman looked at. the, bread in embryo full a min-
ute with the greatest amazement,

“Would you.believe it, Harriet??? she exclaimed, ‘the
poor child’s been Kneading that dry meal in the flour-
bucket more’n half an hour. Dear! dear! Iam thankful
I warn’t born in the City.” :

My feelings can be better. imagined than described, for
sure enougi the bread pan sat demurely on a shelf above
the stove with its contents undisturbed, while I had been
laboring away on the contents of the flour-bucket. I
could have cried with vexation. Aunty Hatty consoled
me by telling me that some great poet, had said, ‘‘every-
body must have their larnin’,’”’? and I felt there was more
truth than poetry in.the assertion—in fact, I was a prac-
tical illustration of the proverb. After another half hour’s
work the great smooth loaves were safely deposited on
the bright brick floor,of the big oven, and as I stood gaz-
ing on my great triumph, my heart swelled witha mighty
burst of, pride, :

The bread baked finely, and in spite of the almost in-
tolerable heat and Aunt Hatty’s kind assurances tuat she
would attend to the baking, I was determined not to
leave it until if was ready to be drawn from the oven.

A loaf of that identical bread was cut for dinner, and
Uncle Carroll and Charles praised its flavor to my entire
satisfaction. ;

“Well, mother,’ said uncle Carroll to his wife, at the tea
table, “what do you think has happened ?”

“Um sure [don’t know,” returned aunt Hatty, thought-
fully. “I'shouldn’t wonder if Squire Jenkins’ wife nad
got a new bonnet or it may be,”’? she added and her vis
age lengthened wonderfully, ‘it may be that the measles
are ‘round again.’ F

Uncle laughed. ‘How serious ‘you are, Harriet. It is
right good news; for Marion, at least.
built by colonel Hayning is to be no longer without an
occupant... ‘The colonel himself is coming next week, witi
his family. A fine young man that son of his!. Eh, Ma-

M——than Robert Hayning! worth a dozen of your whisk-
ered dandies!”’ and ;Uncle George’s merry black eyes
rested knowingly on)cousin Charlie’s “imperial.”

I will confess I was pleased, for Robert Hayning I had
long Known by report. Known him as an orator anda
poet. Enraptured trad I lingered over words which had
fallen from his pen, and deep, deep in my heart, had I
wondered ifhe was all he seemed. :

After dianer was over, I was deputed to wash the
dishes, of which task, thanks to thé experience with the
bre#d’ pans, 1 acquitted “inyself with: honor. Tien we
took our work and saton the-western piazza until the
sun was far down in the sky, andthe tall green trees on
the far-off hill held up their arms to enlold him. «I gazed
delighted on the splendid prospect, but was immediately
disenchanted by aunt Hatty’s summons to the kitchen, 10
assist her about ‘‘tea.”” The tea-ketile was boiling upon
the stove,and the bread for the toast was: already ofa
delicate brown, Aunt passed me the, tea-urn, and in-

‘| stracted. me to ‘scald it’? with water from the kettie, and 1

obliged her faithfully, scalding the urn, and a large place
‘on my arm at the same time. *

“The next day was the Sabbath. Calmly and brightly it
dawned over the earth, I felt my spirit inbued witha
spell of holiness, as I gazed abroad ‘on the green, quiet
country. Everything partook of the sweet, solemn still-
ness. Even thelittle brooks seemed to glide more softly,
and*the birds sang their simple hymus in the dark trees,
The church was three miles away; so uncle: harnessed
the white horses into the double wagon, and we all set
forth,

Sunday appeared to be the general visiting day among
the people of the vicinity, for as soon as we had returned
to Pine Glen, the neighbors began to “drop in,’ until
quite a company had assembled. ‘

Monday, with ail the terrors of a washing day, dawned
upon us, and notwithstanding my oredure, I determined
to participate. Aunt remonstrated, but I assisted about
breakfast, and fed the dear ‘little white chickens'so nice-
ly, that Aunt Hatty was convinced that.Davis’ Pain Kill-
er had been true to its trast. ;

Donning my Saturday’s attire, I was duly ensconced be-
hind the wash-tub, with soap and hot water in abun-
dance,. Then commenced the ‘‘tug of war.’ I got along
very well, with a little of aunt’s superintendence, until
she told me that Imight put the clothes on‘ to boil while
she went to the cistern for water, adding, “ne sure and
soap everything well!’ ;

l adhered religiously to her suggestions, and was about
placing Miss Betsy’s nice blue lawn dress in the boiler
with the white articles, when Aunt Hatty came in.
“Wonder upon airth!? exclaimed she, coming forward

 

just in time to rescue the cherished fabric from impend-

I wentinco the:kitchento find Aunt Hatty. The good la-,|

The new house-

rion? There is not a better young man in the State of.

 

ing destruction what does the girl mean! Marion, I be-
lieve you are the Know-nothingest critter about house
work | ever did see!

I felt very thankful for this consoling information, and
setabout my work with a lighter(?) heart. I had just
succeeded in getting my hands and arms thoroughly im-
mersed in the soap-suds, when in marched Nell, the little
servant girl, and to my unbounded consternation, just
behind her came Cecil Harding and Henry Winslow, two
of my ‘upper tendom’’ acquaintances {rom the city.

It was too Jate to retreat, for the gentlemen were
making their best bows; so nothing remained for me but
to. meet them bravely.

The gentlemen remained to dinner, and express them:
selves delighted with Pine Glen. , ha

Tuesday was ironing-day, and never until then, did I
realize the truth of what our laundress Nad 8aid a thou-
sand times, when asking for increased wages, ‘‘Ah, ma’am,
you see it is such dreadful hard work to iron.”!

However, I did very well. Burned two holes in anew
skirt—made frightfal rent in Miss Betsy’s unfortunate
blue lawn—broke'the handie off a flatiron, by letting it
fall.upon the stove-hearth, and. upset the basket, full of
stockings into the slop-dish. Jfoins que these trifling mis-
haps, I took my first lesson in ironing with credit. . Aunt
said I did well, and Miss Betsy forgave me for tearing
her dress. ;

The next morning, after assisting in putting away the
breakfast things. I threw on my bonnet. fora while. It
was a splendid May morning, and:f took the path to the
river. Oh, how beautiful in the fresh loveliness did every-
thing appear.. The sunshine lay athwart my:path, in a
golden net-work, and odors of the gummy pines filled
the air with fragrance. I sat down beneath a giant oak,
whose roots were: washed by the busy little river, and
lost in @ pleasing revery, in which housework had buta
small share, I was unmindful tothe lapse of time, until
a footstep at my side aroused me. Turning quickly, I
beheld.a gentleman regarding me with apparent sur-
prise. As lrose from my seat, he advanced toward ne,
and bowing respectlully, addressed. me: ‘‘Madam, I
have been so uniortunate as to lose my way; van you
direct. me to the residence of Col. Hayning?”’ 1 looked at
the stranger—he was tall and commanding—thick, glossy,

brown hair flung carelessly back over a pale, thoughtful.

brow—deep, searching eyes, which I knew were. of ten-
derness, and a smile of Strange sweetness. .

[had no. hesitation in waiking with him in sight of
Col. Hayning’s residence; and asI turned: toward Pine
Glen, the stranger asked, ‘Do you reside in this vicinity
madam??? ‘For the present.” ] answered. . ‘I hope then
to have the pleasure.of renewing your: acquaintance at
no very distant period,’’ and he handed mehis card. I
read the name—Rovert Hayning.

The weekly churning-day came, and Aunt Hatty was
desirous to have me understand the art of butter-making.
The churn was one of those ancient ‘‘machines,’? made in
the form of a cone; and the butter was brought by means

of a “dash,” attached toa perpendicular handle. At’

this handle I was stationed, with instructions to pull up
the dash and drop it down as fast as I could. I followed
directions, and at the expiration of three-quarters of-an
hour, I felt some curiosity to see how matters were
progressing; 80, after considerable exertion, I got
off the cover, and peeped cautiously in. A mass of fluid,
more nearly resembling hot water than anything I had

ever seen, met my astonished gaze. [had heard that in old.

times, the cream inthe churm had been bewitched by
evii spirits, and Iran with all speed and told Aunt Hatty
that the cream had turned to hot water.

‘‘Massy-Sakes-alive! Marion!’ exclaimed my aunt, open-
ing her eyes to their widest tension, ‘‘what 1s the matter
now ??? and the good lady dropped the cheese. she was
preparing for the press, and followed me to the scene of
action, She heaved a sigh of relicf after she had exam-
ined matters, and then gravely informed me that I had
been churning all the time on the water which had been
beeu put into the churn to scald it, while the cream was
safe in its own jar in the milk-room,

Things were speedily put in the right train, and again
was | installed monarch of the Ghurn-dash, | After pound-
ing away, until my hands were blistered, I.-bad_ the satis-
faction of seeing the golden butter lying temptingly in the
snow white buttermilk. Aunt. stood by me while J beat
and salted it, and when I had finished, she pronounced it
excellent. . { ‘ ;

When Uncle George came to dinner, he said, with a sly
look at me, ‘Well, mother, you must ‘spruce up,” for
Robert Hayning is coming here to tea;and 1 told him
that there was quite an agreeable little girl here, learn-
ing to do housework, and he had . better come up early.”

At tea-time, Uncle George appeared, accompanied by
Robert Hayning. 1 went throughthe ceremony of introduc.
tion with an air ofa stoic. .Mr. Hayning barely saved

rhimself from a smile at uncle’s polite, ‘‘Permit me to
‘make you acquainted,” &c.

He expressed the pleasure
he felt at renewing his acquaintance with me, and left

about sundown. a
; CHAPTER II.
_ Haying time came at last. The cool zephyrs of June

gave place to the sultry air of July; and the clover blos-°

soms shed an aromatic odor all around.

“Now, Marion,” said. my aunt, ‘the busiest time of the
year has come,'and your help wil be needed: more than
ever, do you think you could rake hay ?!

‘| have no doubt of it,’? L replied, confidently.

The afternoon of that very day, the Sun was curtained

‘by a few sable clouds, and a dark silver-edged belt

Stretched along the western horizon. Uncle George
came in, and said there was @ shower gathering, and he
wanted: ‘all hands,’* men, women, and cliildreo, as he
expressed it, to turn ont and come to the rescue, for he had
fourteen tousiof hay inthe meadow, and as it was the
best:clever and grass he didn’t want it to wet wet.

My sun-bonnet was on my head ina moment; and un-
cle assist meinto the hay-cart, which was drawn by two

‘brown oxen and a dear good-natured looking ~ white

horse, leaving Aunt Hatty and Miss Betsy to follow on
foot. Arriving at the meadow, we found the men hard
at work, while the perspiration ran like rain down. their
faces. { looked dubiously at them, but I dare say my
countenance brightened, asI saw Mr. Hayning in the
midst of them. ‘Fine fellow, that!” said my uncle; ‘not
abit stuck up—came along, and found us busy, and was
not ashamed to off coat and lend a helping hand. Better

‘set your cap for him, eh! Marion,” and Uncle George

laughed at his own wit.

Mr. Hayning hastened forward to lift me from the cart, |'

and said, playfully, ‘‘ am rejoiced to see you, Miss Hast-
man, foritis said that wretchedness needs companion:
ship, and am I not wretched in my ignorance?” : ‘

I was entrusted with a rake, and told to follow after
the load, and rake up all the stray straws. Mr. Hayning
assisted me. : : ;

The black belt along the horizon expanded and became
blacker and denser, until it had nearly reach the zenith,
and at intervals the low rumbling of distant thunder fell
upon the ear. :

None seemed to notice it, however, and I would not be
the first to propose returning. Tne other ladies had not
come, and probably would not, and I felt a vague terror’
at the thought of remaining exposed to such a tornado as
that which threatened us, ;

Mr. Hayning started as a louder peal of thunder vibra- |

ted on the heavy air, and said hastily, “Come Miss Kast-
man, let us return to the house as quickly as possible; the
storm is almost upon us.”

The path lay through a dense thicket of alders, and tall
old pines, on whose gloomy tops the angry clouds seemed
torest. Louder and more deafening grew the terrific
peals, and the lightning was almost blinding. I trembled
so that I could hardly sustain myself. Hayning encour-
aged me; and just as we had reached the darkest, dreari-

-est part of the path, the storm burst upon us in all its

fury. Mr. Hayning harried me into the spreading shadow
of some low hemlocks and throwing his arm around my
waist, drew meto hisside. Instinctively, I clung to him.
Maiden bashfrlness and pride were forgotten—I was ob-
livious of the fact that I was Marion Bastman,the haughty
heiress of C——Square, whose greatest boast had been,
heretofore, the immense distance at which she kept her
numerous admirers. LTonly remember that I hid my face
on the broad breast of Robert Hayning, and I felt safe
there. Ido not know’ how long the storm’ continued;
but 1 heard a kind voice calling my name and I raised
my head and looked around. The cloud had passed
away, but a slight mist wag still falling. I turned to my
companion—his deep lustrous eyes were fullof that ten-
derness which I knew could dwell there, and I felt the
color rising to my cheeks, as my eyes fell beneath that
ardent yet respectful gaze. I felt, in fact, heartily asham-
ed of the terror [had displayed; and as I thought what
could he think of me? I turned away from his offered arin
and said something which must have sounded very fool-
ish. Mr. Hayning evidently divined my feelings, for a
reassuring smile lit up his fine face, as he said gently,
“You were frightennd dear Marion, you tremble now—
nay, but you will not refuse my support!” I took his arm
siientiy, Nota word was spoken until we reached the
farm-house, Aunt Hatty was dreadfully frightened, and
hurried me to a warm room to change my wet clothes.
An evening of radiant loveliness succeeded the afternoon

but aunt would not permit: me to venture outon tlie pi- |

azza even, lest I should take cold. ;

The next morning T arose early, and evading the watch-
fulness of Aunt -Hatty. I stole: out for a waik. The dew
slept bright and fragrant in the bosom of tue flowers, and
changed in the sunlignt from green to gold, and from
gold to crimson. I-look back through the long dim vista,
ofyears to that one bright morning, and it shines pre-
eminent among many scenes of gladness. Who has not
in their heart, the remembrance of some sunny day,
when theirspirits were alljoy, all brightness, all bouyancy?
When they seemed but one step from the Land of thie
Kternal.

I took the path to the river. It was not long before
Robert Hayning joined me. ‘We walked along, side by
side, with the deep blue sky and golden sunshine all
around us. 1am not disposed to tell the particulars of
that walk; but when I returned to the farm-house, Miss
Betsy declared that I looked ‘‘suspicious,’? and Aunt Hat-
ty asked me if Hayning had been ‘‘popping the ques-
tion?? ;

Tremained at Pine Glen all that summer and the fol-
lowing autumn; and I tried hard to learn, and learn [
did, I suppose, for aunt paid the compliment of giving
me a diploma. ;

I suppose 1 might as well tell you what everybody
knows that before the frosts of winter whitened the earth
T was called wife by Robert Hayning. Never have I re-
gretted that summer in the country, since it was the
means of making me acquamted with him who is now
dearer to me than the whole world.—G@Graham’s Maga-

zine, :
—____—_—_ >-9-=}___———
ka The silk culture in California is rapidly becoming
an important interest, and bids fairin a very few years

to rival even the gold production. A large number of
Sulk.establishments have recently been organized.

 

Strangely Married.

CHAPTER XXXII,

The fisherman had not far to go for medical attendance in
that little village on the beach. A poor and clever practitioner
had establishea himself in the very midstof these toilers of the
sea, and he was generally at home. When not out. visiting his
patients he was, asa rule, at work in the unpretending surgery
that formed the basement of his humble home.

He returned to the cottage immediately with the fisherman,
from whom he inquired briefly the nature of the accident. His
first glance-at Paul told him that the case was hopeless.

“Is he related to you?” the doctor asked of Fulcen, who had
watched him. very gravely. :

“No; but L bave a strong interest in him.
tell me exactly what there is to fear.’

“Are his frienos near?”

“At Thorpendean. | Wul it be safe to take him home?”

“Yes, if it is done with care. He may live twelve hours, or
Pee twenty, but-he will never rally. He has concussion‘of the

rain.

The surgeon did-what he could, but he could do very little. It
was simply a matter of time. Paul Dalrymple’s splendid con-
stitution fought against the approach of death to tke last.

They procured a worn-old carriage, with a steady horse, who
never could have remembered more than one pace—a steady
jog-trot, into which he had settled by the advice of his driver,
who was profitably going up and down hill with four inside at
the rate of half-acrown an hour. They improvised a bed for
Paul by means of short pieces of board laid across the seats and.
covered with the cushions and a mattress. He was placed upon
it full length, and with Falcon supporting his head, and the doc-
tor by his side, they set out for The Croft.

Mrs. Dalrymple was absent when they arrived. Her anxiety
to see Mr. Dacre and know what bad happened would not let
her wait tillthe morrow Sbe took the letter Paul had address-
ed to him, ordered her brougham, and was driven to the Lodge
at Thorpendean,

Mr. Dacre received her with a sort of sad-reserve. He reco}-
lected their lastinterview witn something akin to shame, when
he reflected that he had nearly been lured into a marriage with
the doubtful wife of ‘his reprobate cousin.

“Paul gave me this letter for you,” she said simply; “and he
has gone away. There was something very strange in his man-
ner, Mr. Dacre; I have been uneasy. Is anything wrong ?”

Mr. Dacre opened the letter and read it through before he re-
plied. The contents gratified him. ‘The fugitive had begun the
work of repentance in earnest,

“No, madam,”’ he said, ‘there is nothing wrong, except that
oe sis Satety your son must reside abroad.”

y hy ?

“Need J tell you?” he asked, looking at her steadily. ‘“tHave
you no suspicioa of the truth?"

She drooped her stately head with a shudder, and he saw that
she understood him. , :

“My poor, unhappy boy !’’ she said,
merciful to him kad you known all”?

“J have been merciful, madam, and I do know all. I know
that you are the lady whom my cousin Godfrey wronged, and
itis my intention to ao now what I would have done at first
had I been aware of your identity. Should your son succeed
in escaping from England he must never return.”’

si know it,” she said, clasping her sorrowful hands,
it.

“Will you follow him?”

“Tf it were toa desert. He is all I have Jeft me, and what-
ever.may have been his faultz, his crime, he has always been
tender and devoted to me.”

“May it help him in the day of judgment! said the master of
the Lodge, solemnly. ‘Ihave done my best to save him from
justice, too.” ,

“You have been very kind—he said so.”

“He should have come to me souner;. but it is useless now to
dwell upon the past. When we hear where he is you can go to
him, and I will arrange so that you shall reteive.a yearly in-
come of five hundred pounds, paid quarterly.” '

“It is more than we shall require.”

_“f had always intended to make you that allowance, madam,
as an act of right that Godfrey Dacre left undone.”

He was silent then, as if there was no more to say.

“T heard you utter no reproach,’ she said, subdued into hu-
mility by his kindness. “You do not know how bitterly we
have wronged you.” i

“IT know everything.”

“Of Lizzie—”

“Everything. Let it sink into oblivion now. You, of course,
will keep that secret.”

“To my dying hour,
Paul would wish it.” ,

“She is free. Idonot intend to.let that shameful knavery
stand in the way of Jolin Lenmore’s happiness, and I have
sufficient infiuence to have the marriage set aside with a single
stroke of the pen.”

“Tam, glad to. hear it; though Paul loved her very dearly.
You will send to me when you hear from him?” .

“On the instant.” _. ‘ ‘

“Good-by, Mr..Dacre. I have no words to say: what I feel,
but I did not think weshould part, and for the last time. Be-
lieve me, your generous delicacy has been sharper than the bit
terest reproaches. We shall never meet again.”

As he took her hand. and she stood before him beautiful and
sad, his passion began to rise, and he regrettel deeply that he
could not ask her the question he had go nearly asked her on
the last occasion. He sighed as he pressed her hand) and let it

Be kind enough.to

*You would have been

“T know

But can we set her free? I amsure

go. : :

Just ashe was going to ring for a servant to conduct her to
the hall, he heard some one enter the outer room, aiid the dis-
tinct voice of Falcon uttered a few rapid words... .
oe is Mr. Dacre?’ Imustsee him. Not a moment is to

ie lost!’ gu. :

“Mrs. Dalrymple is with him, sir,” said the seryant.

“Mrs. Dalrymple? Poor lady! I don’t Know how T shall
have courage to te)l her—yet it must be told.” é

Before Mr. Dacre could interrupt her, Mrs. Dalrymple had
opened the door, and her hand was on Falcon’s arm.

“Whathas happened?” she asked. ‘Tell me, forI am his
mother: is he taken?”

: “No, | madam; do not be alarmed; he has fallen from his
horse.

“And, not—killed—no, no; you would not have returned—he
is not dead 2” ‘

“He is not dead, but his condition may be critical; and he has
asked for you.” i

He had notime to say more; the lady was gone, and the
brougham went homeward at apace it had never. known be-
fore. Mrs. Dalrymple was trying to realize what had taken
place. Perhaps he was only stuyned—perhaps mentally injured.
One momentshe pictured him broken and dabbled, writhing
In agony-—the next he was still florid; smiling as she had seen
him smile in sleep. Then she tried to stamp out all thought,
and prayed as only a mother can-pray, that he might live and
be restored to her. He wasnottaken, they would not punish
him like a criminal—her sweetest comfort was in that.

“Mr. Dacre,” said Falcon, when the lady had departed; “I
have a very solemn message for you.”?

“From mt

“From Dalrymple. He ison his death-bed, he will. never see
another sunset, and the doctor says that within two hours para-
lysis of the brain may set in; his faculties are dim and dazed as
it Re aaRe is singulaily clear on one point.”

“We :

 

“T thought he was insensible; I was sitting by his side, and
he heard me speak a few kind words of hin. He seemed glad,
tor he put his fingers on my hand, and said this:

“Pell Mr. Dacre that Ishould like to see her before I die.
He will know who IL mean. Tell him that it is my last wish.
Ife will not refuse.”

“He js past hope then?” _

“Quite.. Our man rode after him, and he stopped. Then I
followed him, riding asa man can ride when the stakes area
thousand pounds, and only tavo horses are-entered for the race.
He thought I was pursuing him, and went down the cliff path-
way; he was thrown very heavily. I should say he fell a clear
seven yards.?? f

“Poor fellow 1” ; ‘

“T heard the crash of his forehead on the stones, Mr. Dacre.
When I picked-him up I thought he was quite gone. He was a
bold man, and a bad one; yet there was that about him that
made me glad to think he would carry the day in spite of all.”

“He had his father’s courage and his‘father’s vices, Mr. Fal-
con, and he was led into crime. by a mistaken sense of wrong.
He would have bowed down his head in the way of self redemp-

{tion had he‘been.spared; we will speak genily of him.??
39) ).

“And will you let him see the lady ?
sSVas.?? e

““T am glad of that,” said Mr, Falcon, as though it were a
personal favor. “If yow had seen the wistful jook of his great
black eyes, it would have touched you as it did me.”

It was grand to see so much, sympathetic feeling. ina man
who had to live by hunting down his kind. é

Mr. Dacre went to the lilrary, aud in a few words related
what had befallen Paul Dalrymple. He had sinned deeply, and
there was more than one in the way ot whose happiness his
life was a direct barrier, yet the generat feeling was one of re-
gret for such asad and sudden termination to his days.

“He wishes to see Lizzie,” said Mr. Dacre, taking John Len-
more aside. ‘Shall it be so?”?

Johu Lenmore inelined his head.

“T would not deny a dying man his last prayer, Mr. Dacre.
Let Lizzie see him, if she will.”

-And Lizzie, when she heard under what circumstances the
message had come, was. willing to go. The man had left.an im-
pression upon her not easily to be effaced, and she knew that
his strong, strange love for her, had been partof his incentive to
crime. Now she could think of him with pity.

They saw when they arrived at the Croit;and were ushered
into the sufferer’s chamber, that the end was very near. The
pain bad departed, and his senses were clear.’ The doctor had
toid them that it would beso before he died.

Mrs. Dalrymiple sat by his side, quite teartess, but the dull,
white agony on her face was worse to see than tears. She
seemed glad when Lizzie entered, accompanied only by her
guardian, “Paul had been looking for her so wistfully.

He turned his large eyes upon her as she went round to the
other side of his bed and took his hand.

“Lizzie, love,’ le whispered; ‘‘can you forgive me?”

“From my heart; and I am sorry tosee you like this, You
will be better soon.” : ;

“Yes,” he smiled; “better soon; better when I'am at rest.
Do you, Lizzie, think that you could have learned to love me???

“We will talk of that by-and-by,” she said, gently; and per-
mitting him to.hold-her hand to his breast. “Are you in pain?”

“Not now; 1 was, when I thought perhaps you would not
come. Have you quite forgiven me?” :

“Quite. T have, indeed.” a
: Bis eyes begantodim, and ‘the hand that held hers grew

aimter. :

“I think you have,” he whispered; “for I can feel your tears.
Will you kiss me?”

It wus not the timé to disturb his spirit by thinking of his guilt.
The great change was already creeping over his features. She
laid her hand tenderly on his forehead, kissed him, and returned
his kiss. As his eyes closed she litted his head to his mother’s
breast, and he died there.

 

CHAPTER XXXIITI.
Tux turf grew green over Paul Dalrvemple's place of rest in

Thorpendean old churchyard; the Croft was closed for one,

vear; the lady whom Godfrey Dacre loved and wronged, had
lived in the repose of an Italian convent, for her life had
nothing left, nothing but the hupe of atemple, and the memory
of him who had been spared to dié repentant in her arms.

For nearly a year, Thorpendean had seen nothing of Mr.
Carlow, that gentleman having taken a timely hint from the
energetic Falcon, and made full restitution to Mr. Leumore;
previous to retiring to a London suburb, im a small compact
vi la and surrounding, realized in the eity. :

Banks went to grief, aud companies were judiciously wound
up, Mr. Carfowbeing inevitably connected with them in some
way or other; when ruin was most plentiful, Mr. Carlow
sapnes much indoors; but, ashe was a lawyer, nobody won-

ered. , ‘ ;

He did not trouble May Lenmore by a second offer, of his
‘hand. John, with Mr, Falcon’s assistance, made certain dis-
cowries in London, which induced them to’ make him believe
that it would be an act of wisdom on his part to return to Mr.
Leumore all:such moneys as that gentleman had intrusted to
him for investmentin the Welsh Coal Company. He took -this
advice and his own departure, :

For nearly a year, Frederic Amory, penitent, for his sister’s
sake, and deserving pardon, if real penitence could make him
worthy of- it, had been away, seeking restoration of health and
peace of mind. He hada gentle companion, tor May went
with him.. Some men can have no better guardian than a wise,
and he was one of them; he hada liberal though not too large
an income, and better than all, he had the affection of a single-
hearted girl, who never cared how much he had been to blame
in the dreary years in the colonies,

John Lenmore was in London, carving the way to rapid dis-
tinction, he had far exceeded the limits of the income fixed by
Mr. Dacre, and his own peerless, beautiful Lizzie, so strangely
married to another, was now his wife. They lived in town,
and Mr. Dacre had promised to take up his residence near them
soon. : :

Thatpromise was a source of pleasure to all; but one. Will Len-
more grumbled sorely when he heard of it, :

“Everybody's going away,” he said to John, when John and
Lizzie spent a pleasant summer week at the old place. You
have gone, May’s gone, and Mildred’s going. I should like to
know what Iam to do?” BE ¢ 3

“Ts there no pretty face attractive enough for you, Will? No
one whom you could take home to be a daughter to the old

eople in May’s place?”
js “Nol There's! only one face mn the whole world, John, and
that belongs to somebody who thinks me a big, good-natured,
lumbering old countryman, who can be petted and smiled at
and sung to, without thinking of anything else. Just as if I
haven't a heart bruised. I don’t know how to tell what I feel
in it.” :

“{ do—Mildred?” :

“Yes, it’s Mildred,” said Will, desperately. “I shall get away
nae ‘Thorpendean when they go. I shall try America, or

rica,

“Or the Nile,” suggested John; “or there’s the Desert, sadly in
need’ of farming. Or the Rock of Gibraltar, which is very
sterile. Why, Will, where’s your courage?”

“It's all very well for you to ask that,John. See what a dif-
ference there is between you and me.”?

“T tell you what, Wik,” said John, kindly, ‘tyou shall be my
client, and I will plead ter you.”

“Will you, though?”

“Yes,”? ' ; ‘

SW hen 2”?

“This: evening. Plaintiff, William Lenmore; defendant, Mil-
dred Dacre. Suit, to show cause why the defendant, having, by
certain witcheries, obtained possession of the plaintiffs heart,
should not give him her own in compensation for the same ?””

“It’s all very well for you to make fun of me, Jack; you who
have got the loveliest girl in Sussex, except one. I believe if
she had been a princess you woeld have won her somehow,’

“Then we will see what I can dofor you.” ~

And he kept his promise. That very evening he made an
opportunity of seeing Mildred, and speaking to her on the sub-
ject with serious playfulness. The trenquil beauty of Miss

she had suffered by giving up her old dream of Fred. i St

But she had resigned him without pain at the last. He was
not what her ideal had been, though she could and would have
loved him had he ever asked her. It would have been to her a
kind of duty to strengthem his character and make him a better

better when'a man required no such duty done. :
“Will-you be glad to leave the old. place?” John asked. “It is

changed now from the old times, Mildred!” . i
“Not glad and not. sorry, I think, John.

near you as Lizzie.” an
_ “Yes. Ours 1s a pleasant intercourse. The ripeness of ‘his
judgment and his genial nature are a help to me. ‘There is no
man whom I value so highly.

‘Life must be very sweet to you,” she said, after a pause.

Jevel road, on which my feet fall without trouble. 1 never im-
agined that anything could be so beautiful on this earth as the
deep and holy sense of.joy that fils me when my work is done,
and Ll am going home.”

“And thatis because Lizzie loves you?’ 4 $

‘*Because we love each other, and our lives blend closer ev-
ery day. Because the weary waiting is over, and she belongs
to me, and in the tenderness of wifthood she hag no thougiit
that is not mine, too.” ‘

“And memory brings no shadow ?”

“None. The past, that part of i: which was sad, is a sealed
letter. I love iny wife above allearthly things, and would not
speak a thought which might give her a moment's pain.’ The
past has noshadow,. Lizzie fills my soul with an unchanging,
tranquil sense of happiness.”

pathetic sigh. : : ;
“When they love truly, yes.”
“How strange itis that some are born to go uncared for.”
“Ido not think that any one isborn to go uncared for, We
cannot always make our own claim and have. it; but others’
may care for us.’ } € ditt ha
“What if we do not care for them ?”°

ay

waste a life because we failed to win the one we wanted.”

pose,’’she assented; ‘‘but it would be very dreary,” es,

He touched the hand that rested on his arm. t

“to not say so.
Thorpendean if you knew that your going would give pain to
one affectionate, faithful heart?” 3 i

“Tell me what you mean, Jolin,” 4

“Ts the old dream gone?”

“Quite.”

“Then let me speak for one whose dream still lingers, who
sets so high a value on your love that he is afraid to tell you of
his own, lest in telling you he might lose your friendship. Not
a brilliant man; not a scholar; not one with whom you would

ing and grateful scholar; a sterling, honest fellow, whose heart
is full of you.” e : ; a

ey have thought of it,” she said, simply. “You speak of Will?”

‘Yes, ' ney ween s

‘Does he wish it very much?” ~ ee ie

“As earnestly as Lionged for the hour when I. could call Liz-
zie mine at the altar.” soe Ria chia 3

“Heis a brave, true-hearted country gentleman, and I like
him very much,” she said, thoughtfully, “but I have not pre-
pared myself to think of him inthat light. I could not look into
his face and tell him truthfully that Tlove him yet? |°

“But for his sake you might tell him you would try.’?

‘Do you wish it?” :

‘Very much, Mildred. I could trust you with him safely. I
should know that you would never be. treated with neglect or
unkindness. His love for yous a-reverential tenderness that
will’ remain so to the end.” rN eS

“You have been my brother ever since we were children
John,” she said, putting up her lips quietly to meet his, “and I
know that what you advise is best and wisest.”. «+

“Heaven bless you, Mildred, dear. Icannot give you the man
of your’ choice, but I can give you a faithful guardian, and
when the ola dream is worn out happiness will come.?” .

‘He led her in, and found Wiil with Lizzie, who had more than
an inkling of John’s purpose in taking Mildred out.. When Will
saw hi brother’s face, the look of wistful hope on his own re-
paid him. j

“T had a message from Will,’’ said John, ‘‘and I think, Lizzie,
we had better leave them while Mildred gives him the answer.
They will find us in the drawing room, I dare say.”

Left alone with Mildred, the stalwart young yeoman rose wilh
the shyness of a child; he held out both hands with a gesture
far: more impressive than words. i SF : :

She took them, gravely and sweetly, and the kind expression
of her clear eyes gave him courage. Rs

“Did John tell yout? he asked..
afraid to.”

“Yes, Will, he told me everything.” A

“How miserable I should be when you left Thorpendean, and
pe wanted you to love me !”?

“Yes.

“And what did you tell him?’ he said, with his heart in: his
voice. “Not that——” .

“I told him that I would try to love you, Will) That if it
would make you very happy I would be your wife. There, you
great silly fellow, don’t give way.”

For the great flood of joy had welled up from hissoul to his
eyes, and his throat was husky as he took her tenderly in his.
mighty arms. ’ sis

“Heaven bless you, Mildred!” he said. “I think if you had
gone from the old piace, and left me behind, my heart would
have broken.” — 4 Rit 4 :

“And that,” she said, with her sweet face placed of her own
accord on his shoulder, ‘only shows what a big, simple, loving
heartatis. We had better go upstairs now, Will, and-tell father
what we have done.” ‘ 2 Reet a

They went hand-in-hand, pausing on’ the: thréshold to ex-
change their first caress—the k'ss that set, the seal on William
Lenmore’s future and left hil rothing to desire. :

In the years that have gone by since the. Thorpendean bells
rang at Mildred Dacre’s wedding with William’Lenmore, the
convent in Italy and the grave in the churchyard nave faded
into faint and distant memories. Frederick Amory and May
are back at the old place, and the evil of his days is torgotten.

Mildred is at Glen Farm, content when her husband is hap-
piest. Mr. Dacre sometimes in London, and nearly always with
John Lenmore. Lizzie proud of him because he has won his
place, and is in the House as member for. Thorpendean, and
loving him just the same because he is the same _ John Lenmore
toher. These, meeting in love, and peace, and goodwill with
each other and'the world, we leave—here.~ 28805 Ut ei

4 oh THE END, :

([GoLD DusT DARRELL} OR, THE,;WIZARD OF THE MINES,
By Burke Brentford, Author of Squirrel Cap; and a True
Love Story, entitled, TRUE AS LOVE CoULD MAKE Hg,
will be commenced next week.]

—_ HO

NEW PUBLICATIONS. .

Inprana: A Love Story. By George Sand. Publishers: {
Peterson & Bros. Justin McCarthy says that George Sand (Mad-.

elist of France.” If Mr. McCarthy is right,we pity France. ‘Un-
doubtedly George Sand is a skillful artist, but nota great novel-
ist. The manners she paints are ephemeral, the ‘characters
talse, and her philosophy that of the mere sensualist—no mat-
ter how she may gloss it with fine sentiments and pretty fan-
cies. Thatin art which 1s great must be true. The characters
which Shakespeare, and Scott, and Cooper and Dickens drew
will be as true a thousand years hence as now—the scene may
be changed, the dress different, but the men and women they
have delineated will exist. ‘‘Indiana” is one of George Sand’s
most powerful stories, and, at the same time of her many vile.
works, the most pernicious. . It has her usual husband and wife
—the husband, in this woman’s novels, is always represented as
a brutal tyrant, and the wife an unappreciated,suffering angel—
and, of course, her extraordinary hero, who is: represented as
everything that is brave, generous, and ‘noble; but the reader
discovers him to be destitute of honor and manliness, aselfish

are the miost wonderful creations of all. Those she represents
as good and pure are wives who dcceive their husbands, mai-
dens who are false to the men they intend to merry, and moth-
ers who corrupt their children.

eyes of George Sand. In “Indiana” there is not a really pure
woman nor an honorable man; consequently, we regard it asa
work unworthy the attention of either man or woman.

Camors: A Love Story. By Octave Feuillet. Publishers: T.
B. Peterson & Bros. The translator in his preface says that
“there is a very unjust prejudice prevalent as to the moral tone

partly from that ignorance which accepts the coarse stories of
Paul de Kock and the insidrous immorality of George Sand as
true types of French thought, feeling, and literature.” Andso
“Camors’” has been translated to show that French fiction is
not so base as the world has been led tobelieve. We have read
“Camors,” and find if an impossibility to regard it asa book
which can resultin good to the morals ofits readers. It may be
a true reflex of Paris society under the Empire, but that makes
it none the less objectionable. Adultery ig not a good nor &
healthy subject to use as the basis of astory. This story com-
mences with the suicide of Camors’ father, who leaves a letter
for the guidance of his son, such as no father—not even a French
one—ever wrote; thisis followed by the destruction of & wo-—
man, whois guilty of the amiable weakness, as the French wri-
ters appear to regard it, of adultery; and the story ends by the
hero dying in the arms of another adultress. fruly, this rival
of Bulwer—for the translator says that it is equal to Bulwer’s
“Pelham”—introduces tous worthy ladies and honorable men,
and takes a strange way of convincing us of the beauty of hon-
esty and virtue,when he makes the wives of his honorable men
all false, and the wife of hisscoundrel of a hero pure and good.
This may be'the best mauner to attack sin in Paris, but we hope

 

that Americans may never be taught morality in the same way.

 

 

 

 

Dacre’s face did not leave it an easy matter to see how much ,

man, at the same time that her strong sense told her it was’

But father is dull
there, and I think he is going to live in Loudon as much to be -

“Very. .1 am like one who has climbed a hill,and reached a...

“T wonder if 1t isso with all met,” said Mildred, with a sym-

“See if they are worth loving, and find-such pleasure as there ©
may be inmaking them happy. You would not call it wise to.

~

‘ Life never can be wasted ifit is devoted to an earnest pur: «

Having; no purpose, would you leave » ;

at the outset find companionship; but une who would be a lov- —

“Did he, Mildred? Iwas -

@..B,

ame Dudeyant) is “beyond: comparison the greatest living nov-..

sensualist, and a sentimental boor. The heroines of George Sand. .

No matter how base a woman —
may be, a few fine sentiments redecms. all her failings in the ©

of all French fiction, derived partly from English criticism and .

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The NEw YORK WEEKLY is Printed at PRESTON’S
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The Past, the Present, and the Fu-
ture of the N. Y. Weekly.

With the next number we shall commence a new vol-
ume of the New YORK WEEKLY, and in view of that fact
we think we may be pardoned for saying a few words
with regard to the people’s favorite story and sketch
paper.

A glance at our title-page will show that ours is no jour-

 

nal of mushrcom growth. The new volume will be Vol-|

ume XXVI., wich evidences that our paper has been

before the public for more than a quarter of a century;

and althongh its present’ proprietors fiave owned it for

/Only about half that time, they cannot, we think, be

chatged with going beyond the truth when they say that
its great prosperity dates from the day when they as-
Sumed the proprietorship.

It is hardly necessary to mention in detail the thousand
and one obstacles which met us at every turn at the out-
sei. It is enough to say that in spite of ail opposition—

/and the opposition was of no ordinary magnitude—we
have imcreased our circulation from twenty thousand to
_ three hundred thousand copies. This fact is the only ar-
_gument necessary to prove that we have pleased tne peo-

ple, and that was the’object at which we aimed from the
beginning.
' Of course we have net accomplished so much without
-work—and hard work, too—as well as a liberal expendi-
ture of money, and yet the increase in our circulation has
been gradual. ‘We lave not gone up like a rocket to come
| down like the stick, but have added to our army of read-
ers from week te week, from month to month, and from
year to year, like wise engineers slowly and solidly build-
ing, till the structure is now absolutely indestructiple.
|. We started in our enterprize with only two romance
writers of any note, but we have constantly added to the
‘list, till we now employ some thirty first-class serial wri-
ters; about a dozen first-class poets, and as many sketch
writers, to say nothing of our editorial corps; and the ma-
jority of our contributors are engaged “to write for us ex-
clusively. We challenge contradiction when we say that
we pay out more money fer contributions at present than
any ‘other paper of our class published, and we intend
that the amount shall be greater before it is less, for we
have determined that whatever attraction money can pur-
chase our readers shall have. .

Never, since we have held our present proud position,
‘havé we either commenced or finished a volume under
more Satisfactory and brilliant auspices. We take -no
subscriptions from parties residing where a news agent
ican be reached, and yet our mail list is daily growing
jgreater, and will soon reach an unparallelled figure,
while our arrangements for the production of new stories
‘are such that we cannot fail toincrease‘at least one hun-
dred thousand copies through the agents in a very
short time, which increase ‘will give us a circulation great-
er than has ever before been reached by any purely literary
paper. ee L :

Our list of contributors is now so extensive that we are
enabled to commence a new story with almost every is-
sue, and the result is that every new reader into whose
hands the paper falls becomes a permanent subscriber at
once. There are few who give up the New York WEEK-
LY after once becoming familiar with it, for they know
that it is the paper of all papers to go into families. We
mumber among our contributors several ministers of the
Gospel, and it is our boast and pride that not an oath, in
even the mildest form, can gain entrance into our col-
umns, and not a line to which the most rigid moralist.
would object, a

To conclude—what we have done in the past is a mat-
ter of record; what we are doing at present is patent to
all; and what we will do in the future, our readers may

. . Judge from what has gone before, Of one thing all may
rest satisfied—namely, that we shall take no step back-

ward, but press onward, ever onward, till we have at-
tained the very last degree of excellence.

merece nn ne ere aren

| » Elections.

 

| Why is it that the season when an election is approach-
ing is ever more rife with crime than at any other period?
‘That. such is the case no keen observer will deny! It is
‘because the corruptness of office-secking demagogues,
stooping to bribery and to the demoralization which strong
‘drink is sure to produce, is becoming more and more ex-
tensive in our nation.

A Christian, 2 moral man, one who is practical in tem-

_-perance, shrinks in innate horror from the contaminating

associations he must meet if he appreaches the political

_gatherings of this day.

If ‘the moral ana Christian portion of our people co not
unite and make official posts their aim and purity a neces-
‘pity for him who asks office at their. hands, ruffianism
‘alone will soon rule America.

Look to it then while yet the powercan be held in the
hands of the patriot—look to it before that power is gone,
‘and gone forever !

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOX.

{A department designed especially for ladies, wherein will
€ answered ail questions which may be asked by cor-
respondents, relating to fashion, the different styles of
dress, combination of colors, needie-work of.all kinds,
the arrangement of the hair, etiquette—in short, any-
thing of especial interest to iadies.]

 

 

|
|
j
|
i
f

{tis most difficult to impress the model honsekeeper
“with, the idea that true economy does not always consist
in saving money, but often in the judicious investment of
even 2 large amount,

Our friend Mrs.:Keepwell, has the organ of acquisitive-.
“hess fully developed. Wer husband is a thriving business |

‘man, and makes lier a liberal allowance each week for
household purposes, still Mrs, K., insists upon doing her
own work, cooking, washing, housekeeping, and even her
Own sewing.
| Aweek ago, she, with tears inher eyes, told a pitifa,
Story of negiect. Her husband never spent an evening at
home, and she was sure she did all she could to save his
“Money !
| This is his statement,
“Save my money? Yes, and that very saving has been
‘the bane of my life. Would you believe it? Mrs. Keep-
: well, has $10,000 in the bank, money which should have
been used for servants’ hire and housenold.comforts. My
house is a barn, almost without furniture, and often with-
out fire in winter, to save the coal, and as my wife insists
‘upon being a servant, of course I have no companion at
‘home: therefore I must in self defense, seek society _else-
‘where.”
| W-e think Mrs. Keepweil’s $10,000 would have been far
moré profitably invested in a pleasant home for a: good

‘and geneous husband, than drawing interest in a bank,:

although we believe it to be a duty of every one to set
aside a Certain amount of ais or her earnings for the
Atvainy day,’ which is so sure to come.

Another species of false economy is the expense incurred
in making over old. clothes, :

8. J. hadan oid silk dress. She had it dyed; which

SBA HARADA

New York, November 10, 1870.

cost her $2 50. She then bought 25 yards of velvet, at30
cents a yard, to trim it with—$7 50. She wore the dress
a few times, when it became so stringy she was obliged to
cast it aside. A plain dress, new style, could have been
bought with less money, and would have given far great-
er Satisfaction. .

Last winter, a friend, trying to save, bought nine dol-
lars’ worth of plush, to retrim a light cloth cloak. In two
months it was unfit for use, and she had to buy a new
one before the winter was over.

If you use an old dress or cloak for economy’s sake, if
you have old trimming use it, but do not spend a cent to
buy new, for then you will save nothing inthe end. Let
the thoughtful housewife look well into these small mat-
ters which so closely concern her, and +e will soon find
where a few dollars had better be spent *han saved for
economy, :

Whatare they going to wear for outside garments for
elderly ladies?

We think the handsomest cloak for a lady over thirty-
five is a long cloak of black velvet, trimmed with passe-
menterie and rich thread lace,

For young people, we have tunics or hall-fitting casa@-
ques, velvet coats, with silk vests; cuffs and vevers. Then,
too, jackets and cloaks of astrachan and sea) skin for very
cold seasons, and short cloak-sacques for warmer days.

In rainy weather and for business purposes the water-
proof over-garments are decidedly the most. serviceable.
We give two of the desirable styles.

The first-has a circle skirt, without any fullness at the
waist, buttoned down the front, and a double-breasted
sailor-jacket, with coat sleeves. Thisis trimmed with
bands of black silk, or it is pretty with blue flannel. Col-
lar and revers of the same, and rubber buttons.

The other is of heavier water-proof, and is @ simple
sack, reaching to the bottom of dress skirt, and buttoned
all the way down the front. ;

The round cape extends to the waist, a silk lined hood,
ail trimmed with Hercules braid, or pinked flannel of some
bright color.

A handsome walking suit fora young lady is made of
lavender French poplin. The skirt has a Geep flounce,
over. Which fall detached .oval pieces arranged in fan
plaits, and edged with narrow fringe headed with velvet.
Above these is wide fringe, and then two rows of velvet.
The overskirt is not looped, but is rounded back and
front, and opened at the sides, and trimmed with fringe

and velvet; a tight-fitting basque with pointed front,
round postilion, and long tabs at the sides, falling over
the openings in the overskirt, completes the suit. .

A gipsy hat of Javender silk, trimmed with white lace,
‘lavender and white plumes in the back, and pink roses in
front, is very stylish with this suit. Tie-strings to these
hats should be fastened at the left side. .

Bridal dresses this season are made of white alpaca; on
account of fineness and closeness of texture the Buffalo
brand seems to ve most Sought after. Handsome mourn-
ing dresses are made of the same material in black,
which greatly resembles bombazine, and is much
stronger.

Leng-pointed waists have come in fashion again; also
the long postilion jacket. The new styles of silks are
‘called “rainbow gros-grains,” and are used for evening
dresses.

Fer young girls we have most beautiful suits. One we
examined was composed of scarlet merino, trimted with
black fringe and scarlet velvet. The skirt had three nar-
row flounces headed by velvet and fringe. The overskirt
had a short, round apron in front and three long points
at the sides and back; it was slightly looped and trimmed
as in the skirt. Waist tight, with bretelles of velvet and
fringe; coat sleeves and pointed cuffs. Sacque open at
sides and in the back, trimmed with velyet and fringe. °

A heat school apron with a square front and two longer
side pieces is made of alpaca or silk, and trimmed with
ruffles of same material and rows of ‘velvet.. ‘The bodice
is high in front, and goes over the shoulders like bretelles,
and is finished in the back with a ribbon sash,

Another apron serves in place of an overskirt; this is
round in front and has a tunic back. The bodice can be
made like the other.

A pretty suit for a tiny boy consists of Knickerbocker
pants and a blouse with kilt-plaited skirt confined by a
belt with ends, fastened with a buckle in the back. This
suit can be made of merino, cashmere, serge, or cloth,
and trimmed according to fancy.

The new hoods for children are becoming and comfort-
able, as they protect the ears of the littie ones as well as
the back of the neck. They are made of colored flannel,

and trimmed with white pinked flannel or puff of silk,
and. sometimes of cashmere trimmed with swan‘’s down.

beaver cloth, and trimmed with bright Scotch plaid,

: HOW NINA WAS CURED.

BY HANNAH HOPPER.

 

 

 

‘Nina, dear, can’t you eat just a mouthful of this? We
sent to market on purpose to get it for you, and 1 know it
is excellent.” ; °

“No, mother, I haven’t any appetite, so don’t insist; it
tires me.” oie

“QO, dear! sighed Mrs. Penelope, ‘“‘what shall I do?”

“Please don’t worry about me,?? said Nina, in a doleful

| tone; ‘there is no use Init.’? 2

“But, Nina, you dont try to get any better. If only
you would take a little interest im your health, 1am sure
it would be a help to you.”? Poe :

“Don’t talk so, mother, if makes me so nervous,” and
with her eyes full of tears, Mrs. Penelope left the room.
She met her husband in the hall, :

“How is Nina?’ he inquired. 5 :

“No better; and her appetite grows poorer every day.
What shall we do, William? I feel so anxious.”

“Has the doctor been in to-day ?””

“No; but I am expecting him every moment. I have’

been trying-to persuade Nina to travel with us as the doc-
tor advised, but she is deiermined she will not. She says
she is not able, but the doctor declares she is, and so what
shall we do??? {
_ “T can’t telly but we must do sometning or she will
surely die. It has been three menths now since she has
been into the’ street, and a number of weeks since she
has left her room. Something must be done, and I will
talk with the aoctor.”’

Nina Penelope was an only daughter, petted and in.
duiged from infancy, which undoubtedly made her some-
what willful and exacting, but she possessed a very true,
warm heart, if only it could be reached through the crust
of selfishness which had been formed around it,

For three montis, as her father, had said, she had not
once been into the street, and during that time had grown
more and more feeble, until she declared herself unable
to leave her room. ‘The cause of her sickness might be
traced directly to a disappointment in a love-affair.  Al-
most on her first appearance in society she had. met the
beau of the season, who, charmed with her simplicity of
manners and the freshness of her beauty, devoted bimself
to her for some time, until her heart was taken. captive,
then another star arising in the social sky, poor Nina was
forsaken. She vegan immediately'to droop, and refused
to enter society again. She ate little and slept little,
which very soon weakened her physically, and at last she
grew thin and pale, and positively refused to travel or
even ride out to get.a breath of the fresh air. Her pa-
rents tried, in every way possible to benefit. her, but in
vain. he doctor declared medicine would do no good,
and only the fresh air apd new scenes would cure her;
but she refused to leave the house, declaring that she was
notable, The doctor was getting impatient, and finally
»declared that if she wouidn’t take his advice there was
no use in his attendance, but they insisted on his coming
once a day, and he did it with a bad grace. Tihis day,
however. on which the story opens, he seemed more ani-
mated than for some time.

“T don’t care about seeing your daughter,’’ he said.to

¢

the anxious. father, he began to speak in a very grave,
half-whisper, and closed by saying: “My uncle, an old
experienced doctor, suggested the plan, and said it was
the only way to cure her, but, to carry it out perfectly,
her mother must be as ignorant of the affair as-herself.”’
“Do you think you can carry it through ?? :
“lt seems very hard, doctor,” said Mr. Penelope, ‘but I
will do anything to bring back my daughter’s health.”
| ‘Good t’? said the doctor, rubbing his. hands together.
“T have unbounded faith in the experiment, and Vil write
the circumstances: immediately to my friend, and every-
thing shall be in readiness;* and witha bow and a smile
the doctor was‘gone, while Mr. Penelope sat for an hour
in thought... While deeply engaged with his own thoughts,
Mrs. Penelope entered the room; and, finding him with
his head bowed upon his hand, grew pale with fear.
. “What has the doctor said this time ?” she inquired.
‘ son nothing disparaging of Nina,’ said he; ‘“but—
ut ——__— ,
“But what? Do tell me, William, what is the matter?”
‘Jt may come out all right,” said Mr..-Penelope, .“‘but
our property is in danger; and if we! should lose it’ all,
what would become of Nina—and you, too, Ellen???”
Mrs. Penelope looked bewildered. Sen

failing, ke Mr. Drew???
“Imay be able to avoid it, but then it is so uncertain;??
and not kuowing what else to do, Mr. P. began pacing the

 

room,

laughed Mr. P.

A tasty cap for a young boy is made of black velvet or}

Mr. P., “but I want to see you;” and when alone with

“You den’t mean to: say there is a probability of your |.

 

“Oh, it is terrible to have such 4 trouble come upon us
just now, when Nina is sick!’ said Mrs. Penelope, with
clasped hands.

“Don’t worry about it, and don’t tell Nina yet,’ said Mr.
P., “and I shall'do all in my power to avoid such a crisis;
aud, as I said before, all nay be well. To-morrow morn-
ing we shall know the truth.”?

Morning came, and earlier than usual Mr. Penelope went
to his office; and anxiously his wife watched for his re-
turn. She saw him at last, walking slowly along the
Street, with his head bowed, and his:hands behind him.

She rushed to the door wringing her hands. i

“It is all up with us,” said Mr. P.; “bat don’t take it 80
to heart, my dear. 1 will work for us all; and we will try
to make poor Nina comfortable. . He kissed his wife, who
Was sobbing hysterically.

“It is only for Nina,” she said, “that makes me so
wretched. 1 am sure we could do well enough, for we
Ah el once, William; but poor Nina, what will she

ys :

“We must leave our house,” said ‘Mr. P:; “but I have
already received an offer of a situation a hundred miles
trom: here, where we can have a pleasant little coteage,
and no doubt live happily.”

‘But who will tell the news to Nina?’ said Mrs. P.,
thinking only of her daughter.

“Perliaps you can teil her better than I,’ said Mr. P.
“Break it to her gently;?? and Mrs. P. went. trembling to
her daughter’s room, and told her of their misfortune as
gently as she could; but, to her surprise, Nina sprang up
with alacrity from her reclining position, saying: ‘Poor
father! I pity him so much. Do tell him to come in and
see me.”? :

When her father entered the room, and took a seat
beside her, she put her arms about his neck.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I am sure we can all bear it
bravely.” :

“But,” said Mr. P., secretly pleased, ‘“‘we must leave
our house and all the luxuries it contains.”

“So bad as that??? she said. ‘Where shall we go???

“To a little cottage in D——, where I have been offered
a gcue Situation as gardener. You know that is my

rade. ;

“Well, I can go,” said the young invalid, to the sur-
prise of her deyoted parents, aud they went.

The cottage that they occupied was simple and plain,
but comfortable, and delightfully pleasant, and the gar-
den, which Mr. P. was to tend, was a bower of beauty.

Nina was less overcome by the journey than was ex-
pected, and from the natural kindness and sympathy of
ner heart, she tried to be cheerful for her parents’ sake,
and so, in part, forgot her own troubles.

They had been there but a day or two, when Mr. P.,
Sitting at their pleasant supper-table, where only plain
food* was served, with the pleasant face of his wife oppo-
Site, and his daughter by his side, said, carelessly:

“I wish there was some one with taste that 1 could em-
ploy to assist in training vines, rose-buslies, &c.??

And almost before he had finished, Nina exclaimed:

_ ‘het me try it, father. Iam sure I can help you just a
little,’ and Mr. P.’s face really grew radiant with plea-
sure, eae
And so Nina worked every day among the flowers, and
her appetite returned, the color began to steal into her
cheek again, and her eyes grew bright, as of old. Her
parents watched her with joyful hearts, and the delighted
mother was continually offering thanks that they had
lost their property, since by the loss they had gained
their daugnhter’s health. ‘

And it happened, when she had become the same joy-
ous lass as once she was, the owner of the garden’ wel-
comed trom a tour in Europe his handsome and loyal son;

‘and the two met among the flowers often and often, and

the happiness of the young girl was greater than she had
ever known in the days of Jaxury and ease.

“How much pleasanter itis to be poor than rich,’? she
said; “and why should poor people envy the rich ones?”
and her father smiled and-patted her cheek, while her
mother shed a few tears ot joy.’ ©

One morning, just as the san was rising in the east,
dressed in her pretty. garden suit, she went, as ustial,
among the flowers which she tended and loved. For a

‘moment she sat down on the garden seat to look about
‘her and enjoy the beauties of the morning.

She had sat there but amoment before young Arthur
stood before her.. How rosy and brigit her face looked
then as she gave him a morning greeting.. He sat beside
nen andin a low, charming tone, asked her to be his
wife.

“But Iam rich, and you are poor,” she said,

“But when we are married,” he said, “we shall be
equal in station.” ¢ - :

And so she promised ashe desired, and hand-in-hand
they went to the little cottage to ask the consent of her
parents. E :

“This is more than I ‘expected-from my experiment,”
( “Why wife, do you understand? Nina
has gained her health and a husband who loves her tor
herself. Did ever an experiment work so well before ?””

“But what do you mean by experiment?” asked Nina.

“It will do no harm to let the secret out now,” said
Mr. P., ina joyful tone. “The fact is, I never lost my
property, but am worth as inuch to-day asa year ago. It
was all planned by the doctor to restore the health of our
daughter.’ ;

There was a scene here, but the curtain drops.

However, I would say, if many of the young ladies with
delicate healths, who visit watering places, hoping to
grow better, would go out to work in a garden, as Miss
Nina did, where they could get the sun and the fresh air,
they would, in a short time, be plump and rosy, and in
nine cases out of ten, find better husbands than in the
whirl of exciteméut and fashion. Yet I do not expect
one to follow my advice, tor isn’t style better than health,
and elegance more to be desired than physical strength?

A CORSICAN VENDETTA.

BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE,

 

 

Wild and sorrowful are the stories of the past which
circulate among the people of Corsica, the “dark and
bloody ground? of Europe, the theater of sanguinary
feuds prompted by ili-regulated and ungovernable pas-
sions, while the stern and savage scenery of the Island
forms a fitting framework for these tragic dramas.

On one of the ruggedest portions of the island was, two
hundred years ago, the territory of Marco Colonna, one
of the worst of the feudal lords who cursed Corsica with
their-tyranny, their exactions, and their crimes. He was
young, vigorous and handsome, but his beauty was that
of the “archangel ruined.’’? Satan had set his seal upon
his brow, and all who saw him shuddered. He knew no
law save that of his will, and allowed no obstacles.to im-
pede his march to the yealization of his desires, however
simple, ; et

One day he encountered, and met by chance, in a wild
mountain-pass, a beautiful and innocent girl, Margaretta,
a shepherdess, betrothed to Lazarillo, a herdsman of
her native village. The teudal lord had Jong since
marked the rustic beauty for his prey. ;

He now approached her with a smile upon his Nps and
flattering words upon his tongue. Hespoke of his wealth,
and witat he termed -his love, and painted. the life of
luxurious ease which his fortune could secure the peasant
girl, 1f she listened to his proposals.

She spurned them with scorn. For this he was pre-
pared, and when he found. her true to. herself and to her
lover, he employed the means he had arranged before-
hand. Putting a silver whistle to his lips, he blew a
shrill call, end half-a-dozen of his armed. retainers. sud-
denly sprang forth from the ambush in which they had
been concealed... At a word from their master, they ad-
vanced to seize theunhappy girl and. bear her to his
castle. '

There was only one means of escape tor the unhappy
Margaretta. ;

“Death before. dishonor |”? she exclaimed, and pressing
her crucifix to her lips, she sprang from, the rocky ledge
on which she stood, into the black chasm that yawned
beneath it. ; H

The followers of Colonna were horror-stricken at the
tragedy, and even their master, fiend as he was, stood
trembling like a leaf, as he gazed into the dark depths
where lay a shapless heap of white drapery fleckered with
crimson stains. Then enjoining silence on his followers,
under penalty. of death, he led. them back to his embattled
vulture’s Dest among the mountains, ;

Not long after. this, Lazarillo was hastening. through
the glen, which led upward to the rocky pasture, where
poor Margaretta tended her flock. All at once, without
any warning, without any preparation, he came upon her
mangled body, With a terrible cry he threw himself be-
side her on the grass.

He laid his hand upon her heart. It still pulsated faint-
ly. He flewto a neighboring. rill, filled his cap with
water, and hastened back and bathed her face.’ She open-
ed her eyes, recognized him and smiled.

“God 1s good to me!’?. she murmured. ‘It would have
beep hard to leave the world without bidding you fare-
well. ' : ‘

“But what has happened! Tell me all!’ cried the Gis-

‘tracted lover.

Rallying her sinking forces, she revealed to him the
truth, and then, with a last Kiss, expired.

Lazarillo took her lifeless body in his arms—he would
not summon aid—and bore her to her late happy home,
now a scene of agony and monrning—for she was an only
child and the idol of her aged parents.

Her lover shed no tear, but his grief was the more ter-
rible for the suppression of its natural outlet; and not to
a living soul did he impart the dying revelation of his

j adored. All supposed that she had met her death by

losing her footing on the edge of the mountain pasture.

A few days alter Margaretta’s funeral, Lazarilio en-
countered his feudal lord. Colonna expressed his regret
for his vassal’s loss, and in token of sympathy extended
his hand—a rare condescension. eH

Lazarillo grasped and wrung it.

“fT only hope, my lord,” he said, “that I shall one day
be able to repay your kindness.’

Little did Marco Colonna suspect the hidden meaning
of that simple phrase ! ne

One week afterward, the annual village: festival, pre-
sided over by, Colonna, took place on a vast plain at the
foot. of. the mountains, among which the noble’s castle
was perched, like the eyrie of an eagle. .

On these rare. occasions, Colonna played the liberal Jord
and master, He had instituted prizes for the victors in
various manly games and exercises, such as archery,
shooting at a mark, and catchiag dialf-wild native horses
by the lasso. , sana

Hitherto Lezarillo had been most prominent among the
competitors, but in view of his recent bereavement he
was hot.expected to be present this year. =

To the astenishment: of all, however, and to the indig-

 

nation of his female neighbors, who loudly accused him

WE

 

  

TARA pT

 

 

of heartlessness, Margaretta’s lover appeared upon the
field at an early hour of the day. He wore his gayest
holiday attire, his brightest silken sash about his waist,
while a bran new crimson ribbon and a bunch of gaudy
flowers decked his conical hat.

He vanquished.all lis competitors, He sent an arrow
into the center of the target, and the next shaft split the
the first and pierced the buil’seye. The other marksmen
threw down their bows after this, and refused to shoot.

He was equally unrivaled with the rifle. His center
and line-shots placed him far ahead of his compeers.

The most exciting sport all came last. A dozen wild
horses were turned loose, and came careering over the
plains. The young men, armed with lassos attempted to
secure and mount them. There was a great deal. of

‘}bungling and many ludicious mishaps occurréd, of which

Lazarillo stood a calm, unmoved spectator, with his coil
of cord in his hand. :

At last, when all others had retired from the ring, he
came forward, while every one intently watched his
movements. Singling out a superb black stallion, he
rushed toward him. The horse galloped away from
him and twisted and turned like a hare doubling before
the hounds, put when he found that his pursuer was as
fleet of foot as himself, he changed his tactics, and with
au eye blazing fury, lips drawn back from his white
teeth, and with red nostrils distended to their fullest ex.
tent, he came thundering down upon the young herds-
man, with the design of trampling him to death.

But Lazarillo bounded aside, and threw his lasso with
such dexterity that he caught the fore feet of the auinal
in the loop. A turn of his ‘muscular arm, and the pow-
erful animal fell head long and stunned to the earth.

The multitude of spectators held their breath. Lazarillo
had accomplished but half his task. He had now to bit and
ride tne fierce animal. Before the horse had recovered
from the shock, the man had treed the lasso and forced a
powerful curb into his mouth, and when the stallion
qeeret to his feet, he found a rider firmly seated on his

ack,

Then commenced a furious and terrible struggle be-
tween man and beast. The latter sprang up in the air—
crouched nearly down to the ground—reared bolt upright
—Jashed out. with his. hind: legs—whirled, round wud
round, in dizzying circles—but all in vain.

Then, yielding up the mastery, the beautiful and pow-
erful creature stood panting, flecked with foam, and
champing his bit, but completely submissive. He now
only waited to knew the will of his master. At a touch
of Luzarillo’s right heel he would swerve to the left—a
touch of the left heel sent him in the contrary direction.
When the rein. was slackened, he darted across the plain
like a thunderbolt, but a touch on the curb brought him
to a halt as if he had been shot. When he felt a caress-
ing touch of his rider’s hand, and a word of ‘encourage-
ment from his lips, he paced across the green sward as
gently as a iady’s, palfrey.

Now the enthusiasm of the spectators could no longer
be controlled, and the wildest bravoes proclaimed Lazaril-
lothe victor in the games, in anticipation of the verdict of
their feudal lord. ° :

Obeying a signal frem Colonna, Lazarillo reined up be-
fore the noble’s tent, a gay pyramid of crimson and white,
surmounted by. a silken banner, blazoned with the Colon-
na arms. ‘To the right and teft of the entrance were
ranged. men-at-arms, with bright helmets and breast-
plates, carrying musketoons at shouldered arms.

Colonna advanced to meet the victor with a smile upo
his false lips. After a few complimentary words, he pre-
sented the prize, a small golden cross set with brilliants.

Then Lazarillo, holding the gift on high, and rising in
his stirrups, cried out, in @ voice that might have been
heard a mile;

“J will receive nothing-from the hand of the villain
who sought to betray my betrethed, and forced her to
destroy herself.” :

With these words, he flung the cross in the face of
Colonna. Pg :

“Treason! cried the infuriated noble, glancing at the
guards. “Firel?? ~

But Lazarillo had dashed off like a bird. on the wing,
and though every soldier discharged his weapon at him,
not. a shot struck him.” © :

Before they could reload, he was sweeping back to the
tent, as the falcon wheels ou his prey, whirling his fatal
lasso in his-hand. :

The open loop, when he made his cast, fell round the
body of Colonna, but before it struck the ground gripped
his ancles like a vice.

Away to the mountains, distancing pursuit of horse-
men and footmen, dashed the avenger on his wild black
horse, dragging the body of Colonna after him. The
writhing wretch curled like a worm, and Cclasping the
rope above his head, kept it from contact with the rocks,
and thus prolonged his life. He gasped out prayers tor
mercy and offers of royal bribes, but they were answered
by Lazarillo with terrible shouts of convulsive laughter
or With horrid imprecations, : ‘

At last the rider reined up his horse on a ledge of rock,
and looking down on his bruised and bleeding, butj yet
fully conscious Victim, said sternly:

“Do you know tbis spot ?”?

Colonna gazed round him, and bowed his head.

“It was hence,” said Lazarillo, grinding his teeth, and
looking more like a flend than a man, “hence that you
forced a helpless girl to leap into eternity to escape a fate
worse than death, Now we are going to joinher. I have
sworn to bring you to judgment and_I will do it.”?

thrown themselves on horseback, and ridden furiopsly in
pursuit, were seen pressing up the rocky pathway, mus-
Ketoon in hand. .

Colonna saw them and hope sprang up in his bosom.

“Nelp! help ?? he shouted, “Iam alive—you are. not
too iate.”? s .

Your last word is a lie!’ retorted Lazarillo, and he
tried to force his horse over the brink of the precipice,
but the animal recoiled and thus gave time for the two
guardsmen to stand up in their stirrups and fire.

Both shots failed, and the repoits only maddened the
wild horse. At. the same time Lazarillo arew his knife
and stabbing the anima} in the flank, forced him to the
leap.. He sprang wild and wide into the air, and as he
fell into the river, Colonna’s body, swinging at the end of
the lasso, was trailed down the face of the precipice and
torn into shreds, Lazarillo and the horse were instantly
killed by the fall. ;

Even the ficrce islanders, who soon gathered round the
remains, were appaled at the spectacle, and to this day
their descendants cannot recount without a shudder this,
the bloodiest of Corsican vendetias.

ee

Items of Interest. :

Sas The new Crystal Palace, to be erected in this city,
between Third and Fourth avenues, unmediately above
the Yorkville tunuel, for the exhibition of the productions
of all nations on the face of the globe, will occupy the four
sides of the ground to the extent of 150 feet deep, leaving
an area or open space in the center equal to eleven acres.
The building will be constructed of iron and glass, and
the open space, alluded to, laid out with great tasie, and
ornamented with fountains, statuary, flowers, etc. The
Capital of the Crystal Palace Association is $7,000,000,

Ras The editor of the oldest paper in Ohio, when he
heard of the .battle of Sedan and the surrender of Louis
Napoleon, wrote and published an account of the event
in a column parallel with a reprint of the article he wrote
and published in the same paper of the surrender of the
great Napoleon in 1815. He is probably the only editor in

 

in the same paper,

kas One night recently, a family in Berks County,
Penn., were awakened by the screams of. their infant
lying in its cradle.. Blood was found issuing from its
wouth and cheek, and a close examination disclosed
what appeared to be a rat bite penetrating the gum and
upper lip, and terminating at:the nostril. «The next night
atrap was set, and an enormous rat caught, nearly the
size of a small cat.

day, @ platform car, full of musicians, broke Joose, ran
away down a hill, (probably on account of the heavy
Strains upon it), landing the bassdrummerin a ditch,
and‘disseminating musical talent in all directions, For-
tunately ne bones were broken, except the trombones,

kas A Yailroad engineer, while asleep at Centralia,
Iinois, the other night, dreamed his engine was about to
run off the track into the ditch, when he frantically got
out of bed and rushed to the window, out of which he
jumped, a distance of about twenty feet, but excepting
some severe bruises, was not injured.

ka At a fair in San Francisco for the benefit of French
suilerers a@ young lauy worked the sentence ‘Vive la
France’) in the center of a handkerchief with her own
hair, and presented the handkerchief to the fair. It was
subsequently bought for $1,000. ;

ar A fruit grower of California does not pack away
his grapes in bunches, but places them stugly in layers,

for a loag time without losing their fullness, freshness or
flavor.

kas In proof that Dickens was latterly in sympathy
with the. United States, it is said his manuscripts were
written with blue ink, on white paper, and his published
works universally read. ;

kas The revenue bureau has decided that a widow may
continue the business of her deceased husband without
taking out.a new license, provided she changes the bonds
in her own name.

A company has been formed at Manchester, N. H..
called the “Brazilian HaitCompany,” for the purpose of
manufacturing chignons and switches from jute.

kay A milk dealer in England was recently sentenced
to four months’ infprisonment at hard iabor for diluting
his wares with water,

kay The New Jersey Penitentiary contains 575. prison-
rs. Two-tiirds of the number are engaged in the manu-
facture of shoes, and make 2,000 pairs weekly.

kas The population of lowa is 1,200,000. About twenty
years ago it Was a howling wilderness,

aas- A pear ‘on exhibition in Chico, Cal., measures 16 by
19 inches, and weighs three pounds. :

kas A cargo of tea is now sent from Shanghae or Foo
Choo to New York, via San Francisco, iu fifty vays. .

pas White hearses are considered the most “stylish” in
San Francisco,

Sa It. is calculated that the next census of London will
show & population of nearly 4,000,000.

eee mg eet
Dizp.—At New Brunswick, N. J., October-12, WILLIAM

 

W. STREET, in the 4¢ih year of his age.

At this moment, two of Colonna’s guards, who had frule in any. high-school arithmetic.

the world who has written of the exit.of both Napoleons |.

Bar Ata street. railroad celebration in Utica the other |

He claims that by his method grapes may be preserved }

To Correspondents,

Gossre wiTH READERS. AND. GONTRIBUTORS.—
Minois.—Of the firm which issued the card we know nothing;
but Messrs. John Hooper & Co.are entirely responsible. You
should write to Hooper & Co. for information. ....... rry and
Ned.—Ist. The word “suite” is proncunced “sweet.” 2d. We do
not know of ‘any person of the name. The name of the gentle.
man who writes the excellent sketches in -broken “Dutch,’!
under the nom de plume.ot “Heofty Goofty,” 18 Gus Philips. 3d.
No yacht ever crossed the Atlanric Ocean in nine days, nor did
any sailing vessel ever perform the passage in that time, . 4th,
When a widower with a son marries a widow who has a
daughter, the boy and girl are slep-brotier and step-sister. ..<. i

 

put in a wrapper or envelope. Where put in a wrapper some

ostmasters pass the MSS. through atnewspaper rates of postage.
By. “Au revoir” nieans “Adieu until we meet again.”’........ Lon-
don.—Ist. The gentleman would not thiuk the lady in love with.
him, from so slight a circumstance, unless he was possessed of a
very high opinion of his own powers of fascinating the female
heart. 2d. Were the gentleman very sick, there would be no
impropriety in the lady’s calling to see him; but were he
troubled with some slight attack, she had best not call, or she
may give the gossips subject for invidious remark. 3d. Highiy
improper to permit of such familiarities....... Dorothy.—1st. The
laws of the different States difier in respect to women holding
property in their own right. In some States the property of a
woman at marriage, together with all she acquires atter mar-

husband’s debts; in other States the exemption is confined to
real estate only; and in other States the wife cannot receive
property from her husband after mariiage. 2d. The proper
answer to the question depends on the manner in w hich the
property has been conveyed to the wife. If the conveyance
was made by deed, and properly recorded, the husband cannot
reassume control of the property; but. if it were merely an
agreement, without a monetary consideration, it would not
stand inlaw. You shonld seck the advice of a lawyer in thig
matter, who, after an examination of the form of conveyance,
ete., would be able to decide as tothe power of the wife over
the property....... Reader.—Were we to notice all the litule flings
ot papers without influence, character, or circulation, we would
be giving gratuitous advertising to many papers which are eaten
up with envy at the success of the New YoRK WEEKLY. Editors
who know how to conduct papers ‘success{ully do not go out of
their way to assail cotemporaries; nor do editors who under-
stand their. business care to give even unenviable notoriety
to obscure sheets.......... J. B. Marshall.—A sinew cannot be
lengthened; but a sinew which is contracted may be cut so
as to permit a limb. to resume its original functions. Before
undergoing the operation, you should have an examination
by the surgeons of some hospital. A charlatan, or an un-
skillful surgeon, may injure you for life........... Fool.—AttL
ladies whose uames you do not know should be addressed
as ‘Madam,’ whether they are married or unmurried.
Where you know the names you should use the proper title—if
a married woman, thatof “Mrs.; ifa single woman, ‘‘Miss’—
without ‘regard to _age......... ... mma Louise.—Ist.-Your pen-
manship is poor. Yours is not short-hand writing. Short-hand
is a compendious method of writing by substituting characters,
abbreviations, or symbols for words. You write a bad back-
hand, which is of all styles of writing the very worst. 2d. Yes
if suitable... ....4 Wews Dealer.—The post-office cannot be held
answerable for the fate of a registered letter; but post-office
officials are obliged to give all the satisfaction in their power as
to the letter’s delivery, etc. Ii the post-office clerk refuses to
give the information you should, make complaint to the post-
master, and if he neglects to attend. to your complaint you
should then write to the Postmaster-General. ;
office clerks forget that they are the servants not the masters of the
people, and they should be taught that those who go to the post-
oftice for information are entitled to receive it, and to be treated
politely. Ifa clerk does not know his duties, the sooner he
gives place to one capable of understanding them the better...
Oroville, Cal.—None of the stories published in the New York
WEFELY, from the pen.of ‘Ned Buniline,’”? will be published in
DOOK-form: . 0.0 5.0 es A, O: Builer.—We cannot add to our writers
of short stories and sketches.......... Omaha Reader.—The mat
ner of withdrawing goods trom the Custom House, with the va-
rious regulations and the percentage of tariff on different kinds
of dry gocds, would occupy more space than we can afford to
any question. You should get a copy of the tariff laws, and a
book containing the rales and regulations of the Custom House,
Dick Turpin.—In_ going into a church of any denomination you
should act exactly as you see the rest of the congregation act—
rise when they rise, kneel when they kneel, etc...... A, Adair.—
The course you are now pursuing is the very. best one you could
4ake. A-seltish or cowardly man would desert those it is his
duty to. protect to the best of his ability; but you stand your
ground, taking your part of the suffering and alleviating that of
those less able to bear it. There are few families in this Jand
that do not suffer from the effects of Nquor—few in which there
is not some member who drinks. ‘the bowed forms of aged
fathers and mothers are hurried to their graves through wit-
nessing the wreck aud ruin which liquor has brought upon a
beloved son; children whose young years are’dimmed by the
brutality of a drunken father; and wivés whose married lives
are made miserabie by drunken husbands. The drunkeness of
dear reiatives is among the thorniest of the crossés which poor
humanity has to bear. All honor to the man or woman, who,
through all the sorrow, and sin, and suffering consequent on
such drunkenness, does his or her duty, aud tres to redeem by
loye the poor, weak victim of the accursed destroyer......... °
E, P. Best.—ist. Several volumes of Josh Billings’ writings
have been published. You can get them from his publisher, G.
W. Carleton, corner of Broadway and Twenty-fifth street. 2d.
Thomas Paine died of a complication of diseases, contracted in
the service of the United Srares, and inthe prisons of France.
3d. A woman generally permits the manto whom she is en-
gaged to be married the privilege of kissing her. The woman
who would not do so would be regarded as very cold in her _af-
tections. Of course no modest Woman would permit her
affianced such liberties in public. There is nothing more dis-
gusting tothird parties than inordinate displays of tenderness
between lovers. 5th..We are unable to state which of the
towns has the greater number of manufacturing establishments,
When the census of 1870 has been published we will be able to
give you the desired information.......... A, A. D.—It would be
useless for you to forward the MS., as we could not use it........
Florence Amber.—I1st. Perfectly polite. 2d. “‘Double Position,” is
arule in arithmetic for the solving of problems by proceeding
with each of two assumed numbers, according to the conditions
of the problem, and by comparing the difference of the results
with those of the numbers, deducing the correction to be applied
to one of them to obtain the true result. You will find the
i 3d. The only tault with
your handwriting is, that you make your characters too angu-
jar. <A plain, round hand 1s the easiest to read. 4ih. There are
no errors of grammar in your note............ Tnving Youth.—A.
GUSGE 6. 53 om Jacob F. F.—You should apply in book stores. -2d.
See answer to “Selim. Jones,” in No. 48 Agent.—We know
nothing of the firm, but have little faith in any firm which ad@-
vertises for agents, offering as inducements $25, $30, and larger
amounts aday. There ,would be no need of advertising for
agenis if men could do aS well as the advertisements state......
bigwte Sufferer.—The fellow.is one cf the most notorious swindlers
in New York............The following MSS. have been read and
accepted: “Our Old Home onthe Hill,” “Marian Gore,” “An
Autumn Elegy,” “Mine and Thine,” ‘The Sailor’s Return,” and
“Bleeding Heart.) 2 02 Sse 93 The tollowing are respectfully de-
clined: “Beware,” “Our. Daisy,”. ‘Vive Memor Lethi,” “The
Tempest’s Choir,” “The Pilgrim’s Death,” ‘To Eddie,” *For-
saken,” “Twice Courted,” “William the Conqueror,” ‘A Ball of
Fire,” “To A,” “The Somnambulist,” “The Bride of Heaven,’
“fhe Home of. My Childhood,” “Napoleon’s New Army,” “A
Mother’s Grave,” “The Down Train,” ‘‘Revenge,” ‘Lerino,”.
“A Heart’s Trials,’ ‘Let Him Go,” ‘The Flea Cross,” ‘Lost
Hopes,” “My Cousin’s Duel,” “Friendship’s Tear,” “A Frag-
ment,” “A Picture and a Warning,” and ‘October Reveries.”’

————_ 04
{OFFICIAL BIZZNESS.]

OFFIS OV “JOSH BILLINGS FARMERS
ALLMANAX FOR 1871,” }
Editors New York Weekly: 9.

Sum men are born grate, sum git grate after they are
born, sum have grateness hove pon them, and sum aint
troubled with neither. =a _ i

But (mi dear phello) the objekt in writing this epistol iz
not this, but to inform you that i shail let Joose about the
middle-ov Oktober, 1870, ‘JosH BILLINGS FARMERS ALL-
MANAX FOR 1871.” ;

No family who keeps atwo hoss carriage should be
without this Almanax.. — ee

AZ anshunt Knower, phull of phaith, let slip the pure
and innocent duv from his Ark, so doth 1 let slip this All-
manax, and bope it wont come back. All good house-
wifes will find in this Allmanax, how to train up their
husbands in the way they shouid go, and they wont de-
part-from it, and also how to make ailively slap jax:

Tothe weary wanderer-this Allmanax will bea gide
board, showing the nearest cut to the next town, and to
the sorry, a soda fountain ov gimnastic delight.

This Allmanax gives the biography, etimology, syntax,
and prosidy ov bugs, beasts, and little cod fishes, and
tells‘us, with the fondness ov a step parent, the right time
to trade oph a dog. ‘

Jn konklushun, it gives me grate plezzure tew remark,

That kussid are lobsters and milk for supper, for they
hav no bowells ov mercy, nor mercy for bowells,.

With grate flexibility of Karacter, I am your Hmber
friend. JOSH BILLINGS,

Allminacter.

TWO GREAT STORIES.

NEXT WEEK

 

by TWO FAVORITE AUTHORS, The first is

Gold Dust Darrell;

oR, THE ¢ Ds
WIZARD: OF THE MINES.
By Burke Erentford,

Author ot “Squirrel Cap, the» Ranger of Raccoon

3 Ridge.”

Gotp Dust DarRewi is one of the strangest
stories we have ever published. The plot is wild and
peculiar, the characters are made up of the motley
crowd which rushed to California on the breaking
out of the gold fever, snd the humor is. striking,
though somewhat exiravagant. Asa whole the story
cannot but please those who admire wild adventures,
strange scenes, laughable episodes, and strong
situations,

 

The second story is called

True as Love Could Make Her.

This story deals entirely with domestic matters
among the humb!e, «nd the suthor depicts with rare
fide ity and felicity the sufferings, struggles, and tri-
umprs of the poor—their patience inadversity, their
generosity to each other, their minlicess and truth 3
10 fact, it is one of the most thoroughiy enjoyable
stories which we haveread in many a day. We advise
the admirers of Mrs. Holmes’ stories to read ‘True
as Love Couid Mike Her,” as they will find it portrays
with kindred geniality the ceople we all meet, and
know, and love. Indeed, the style of the story is very

 

Simil rc to the style uf Mrs, Holwes's stories,

 

M. A. Rowkey.—1st. Penmanship poor. 2d. MSS. can either be.

riage, may be held by her free from all liability for her .

Too many post-'’

we shall begin the publication of TWO GREAT STORIES |

 

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a A NT ae ee OT

 

HARTHCOS THEMIS,

 

BY WILLIAM ROBS WALLACE,

Shrink not, 0, poet! from Earth’s themes,
And only long for starry dreams,
Because before thee thousand lyres
Were strung with Truth and Art,
To sing for countless multitudes
The phases.of the Human Heart.

Shrink not, but firmly sing Earth’s Themes,
Nor ever long for starry dreams;
Yes, sing as earnestly as thougn
Thou wert the first who ever rolled
- Phe human diapason from
A harp of steel or lute of gold.
Still hearts are bright and hearts are sad;
Still men are sane and men are mad;
Still seasons come and seasons g0;
Still storms are launched and rainbows éarled,
And now as at the very first
A bard has mission in the world, *

 

THE

Conspirator’s Doom;

OR THE

LOST HEIRESS OF LATYMER.

_A Tale of the Days of Elizabcth.
By EVELYN ASHBY,

Author of “The Illegal Marriage ; or Cecy Mor-
gavs Trials,’? ete.

 

{The Conspirator’s Doom”? was commenced in No. 50. Back
Nos. can be obtaimed from any News Agent in the United States}
CHAPTER Y.

CAPTAIN REDMOND’S ESCAPE—SEARCH FOR THE JEWELS.

The old saying that “fortune favors the brave,”? was
never more truly exemplified than in the case of the
master of the Marquise on the night of his adventure on
the sands,

_He had drawn along breath when he found that his
own boat was so near at hand, but in a moment his joy
was dashed by the arrival of the guards who came run-
Ding on his track. Looking around the point he saw the
foremost but a few yards away. ,

_T'wo courses were open to bim, and two only—he must
run or fight. To run was almost as dangerous as to face
the guards, even at such odds; for he hud. lost so much
time already that he could scarcely hope to reach the ren-
dezvous before the tide would catch him; and besides,
Nis. boat might linger here, after allowing the boat which
would follow the guards to pass, and thus he should miss
the Marquise when she came back on the coast for him.

All this passed like a flash through his mind, and the
fearless man determined to trust to bis good blade if fight
he must. The foremost guard had nearly reached the
point, and his panting could be distinctly heard when
Captain Redmond sprang back to press himself as closely
as possible against the rocks,. In this backward move-
ment he fell over a large boulder, and rolling down upon
the sand his head feli beneath a projecting point, thus
Jeaving little more than his boots exposed.

Had not the sword fallen with a clang upon the rocks
he would have made no effort to rise; but fearing that it
had betrayed him, he tried to free himself, but only to
find that he was firmly wedgedin. More than that, even,
for his sudden fall had started a loose rock, washed out
by many a tide, and it had toppled over upon his leg,
giving him intense pain. :

He suppressed a groan as the foremost guard came

rushing by, followed by another, and another, until five

had passed and disappeared from his sight. Still he
could hear the clanking of their swords as they kept up
the chase; and soon after the sound of oars as the guard
boat was hurried on in pursuit.

The sand grew damp beneath him ere Captain Redmond
dared make a motion, but he now saw thatthe tide would
be upon him ina few moments, and he‘raised his hand
to push the stone from his benumbed leg.

With a cry of horror he found that the rock was a vast
mass which would require the combined strength of two
or three unencumbered men to move. To add to the
misery of that moment an incoming wave swept up the
beach and drenched him to the skin. The least motion
of his limb was intensely painful. Another wave swept
in with adde@ force, and maddened to desperation, un-
heeding the excruciating pain that it gaye him, the im-
prisoned man struggled for release.

But it was in vain. He had escaped from the guards,
who were thirsting for. his blood, only to die there by
inches, a prey to the merciless tide.

And where was Parry? ‘He wasa coward to leave me,
ana I fightmg for his safety,’? said Redniond, bitterly,
‘put he must have gone down the sands—and the guards
Will catch lim for his. cowardice. Ah! that I had stood
at bay before them all.” e

Higher and Ingher came the tide—cruel amd remorse-
less, and at last nearly suifocating him with every wave,
It was all that. he could do to keep his head above the
water as it sweptin. Yet why try longer? What hope of
relief was there? :

Captain Redmond, in that dread hour, wicked and
ploody as his life lad been, closed his eyes to repeat a
prayer. Itis even thus when the dread moment comes,
and we have to think of the world into which we shall
s00n be hurried. No matter what his life has been—no
matter how much he has outraged his God or humanity,
even the worst man that has lived on earth, when brougit
face to face with death, will repeat a prayer that was
taught him in the pure years of youth, taught him per-
haps by 2 mother’s lips.

Firmly believing that his last moment had come, Cap-
tain Redmond—he was Nicholas Kelloway then—civsed
his eyesto repeat a prayer. But his lips had not moved
with the mockery, when a sound fell on his ear which
brought him back to earth—which gave him life and
hope. 1t was the signal of the Marquise.

With all his strength he shouted in reply, and soon had
the joy of hearing his cries answered. Ue heard the
sound of oars, he heard the boat touch the sand but a
few paces from the spot where he was lying, he hearuthe
voices of his sailors as they rushed to his aid; then “lost
his Gonsciousness entirely as nis head fell back beneath a

yave. ;

And where was Parry? ‘Now,’ the brave captain had
said to him, as he sprang like a tiger from the jungle, but
Parry had slowly slipped down the rocks, and was con-
cealed in the bu hes, where the master had Jaid the first
soldier upon the sand.

Quietly he stole out during the fray, stumbling over the
sword which had been Kicked toward him; and, leaving
the master to his fate, he had crept out into the night. He
heard the appeal to him to delay the wounded fan; but,
thinking of his own safety ‘alone, he ran at full spved
down the beach, and made for the rendezvous which the
captain had made known to him, é

. He was still running when.a signal broke upon his ear,
making himstop in terror; and he was avout to run back
for the protection of his comrade, when he made out the
wherry. He clambered over the side in hot haste.

: *Push off, men, push off.. The guards are upon us—
push off,’ he cried with great excitement.

“Where is the captain??? asked one.

» He is taken—the guards have him. Push ont at once,
or they’li,be upon us,”? and he grasped the oar nearest
him with frantic energy... The sailor pulled it away.

, “Sit down, sir; we’ve dodged the guards often enough
not, to. get. caught now. Did you see them take the cap-
tain?) 6), iri! 1

. o¥es, I saw it—don’t wait for him—they were overpow-
erinpg him as Iran.” 5
>How: many ?”? ‘ i

“Three of them on him,” said Parry, quickly, anticipa-
ting the question. “They have him sure enough; what
good will 1t'do him. if;we are taken too?”

“Only three??? said the man in the bow; “‘three of them
could never take the master.”

. “Bat [tell you lsaw——”’ ;
. “Hist! what is that?, Be silent if you would have us
fave you. Jack, what is that??? { s
Pushing Parry down in the stern of the boat, the  sail-
or bent over the: bows and listened intently. :

“Its a tread, sure enough—there’s but one. A guinea,
Jack, thats the master? °

Nearer and nearer came the sound, and they now heard
distinctly tie tread of a single man, running along the
sands. Slowly pulling the wherry, in toward the shore,
they again listened for the tramp,. It had ceased entire-
ly, but they knew thatthe man was near, | ;
>There he is—I see him at the point,” said Jack, in an
undertone; ‘give her a push ia.”

The wherry came still nearer the shore, and now, these
geamen, accustomed to lookont duty, were able to make
out the figure of a, single man—a mere shadow—upon the
white sands. :

- 4p was then that the signal was given. With joy they
answered it, knowing thatthe master had escaped ; bus
before they could run the boat on shore, the tramp of the
guards was beard, in hot ‘pursulf, but a few yards away.

Even then themen would have landed to Join the cap-
tain in the fight thatseemed unavoidable; but he ordered
them back, and instantly was lost to their sight as he se-
creted himself behind the point, and against the dark
shadow of the cliff. : 5

On came the guards, their arms clanking as they ran,
and their voices echoing across the water ag they called
The boat was now beyend sight from the
shore, but the motions of the guards could be made out
by sound. Before coming to the point the whole party
halted, and. for;a. moment chatted together, and every
word being distinctiy heard in the boat.

“Bring the light—who has the lantern 1’ asked one who
seemed to be the leader,

, *‘Here it is.” ee
- “Examine the sands here,” and faint flashes of light
showed the forms of the men as they stooped to find the
captain’s tracks.

“Here they are—fresh. Come on, men, we have him
now. He cannot leave the sands, and before he gets
down the tide will stop him.” i

They felt perfectly sure of their prey, for the steep clit
along the shore extended near two miles farther, and the
tide was coming in rapidly.

“Tg the boat coming?” asked one.

“Close behind us—do you not hear the oars?”

z EES)

ANU TIVE VATE near

 

arm STAN S

For a moment they listened, and the sound of the oars
as the guard-boat pulled behind them, ready to take them
off when stopped by the tide, came clear and distinct
above the ripple of the waves.

Again they started on in pursuit.

“Now for it,” said Jack, with bated breath; “if he
stands there’ll be fight worth seeing.”

“The boat! the boat!” cried Parry, inalarm. ‘Push
oul, men; for Heaven’s sake, push out, they are right
upon us,” ;

Again he caught the nearest oar in his excitement.
With a subdued oath the seaman. drew the oar trom the
water and raised it over Parry’s head.

“Dill smash your skullinif you touch it again,” said
he. “If we are caught it will be yourfault. Do you think
our necks are not worth as much to us as yours?”?

“Hist! the beat! whispered Jack, and dipping their
Oars again the sailors sent the light wherry back into the
hight, hearing the larger guard-boat rushing by, pulled by
half-a-dozen stalwart arms.

Parry sank back helpless and silent giving himself up
for lost. Generally he was a cool man in hours of dan-
ger; to-night he seemed to have lost his head entirely.
But the seamen had been too often in similar situations
to fear, and Kuew just how far they could venture with
Safety.

As the sounds of the boat grew indistinct with distance
they pushed the wherry in to reconnoitre. The tide had
risen so that there was no longer danger of an attack by
land. They had to wateh the boat alone, and whiie one
listened for it, the other prepared to signal the rocks and
crevices along the shore. ; ,

They had reached the point where the captain was last
seen when theirsignal was answered. It was followed
by a feeble cry. With all possible haste they ran the
wherry on shore, the bow almost touching the rock be-
heath which the master was lying; and so high had the
tide risen that they touched the sand by his very side
when leaping out to his relief.

Even then the water was several inches deep, and each
incoming wave flooded them to the knees. Quickly they
rolled tife rock away, and taking up the master’s uncon-
scious body, laid it gently in the stern of the boat. Parry
had not risen, but he tock the drooping head upon his
knees. ,

“What is that?” said Jack, suddenly, as he prepared to
push off the wherry; and as the others looked toward him,
he thrust his hand down into the water, bringing some-
thing to thesurface. ‘“‘By wy faith, he has brought. one
of their swords away,’? said he, with a voice which be-
trayed the pride that he feltin his captain’s prowess.

re burial-certificate. for one of them,’? replied the
other.

“Lucky I put my foot on it,” said Jack, pushing the
wherry from the sands, and springing into the bow.

Parry had taken the sword from the seaman’s hand,
but he dropped it immediately, while a feeling of shame,
of mortification, as he remembered how the gallant. cap-
tain had pushed it to him, even in. the, heat of-the strug-
gle, made the hot blood course through his veins.

It took but a few moments to pull the wherry away from
the coast, and to get comparatively safe from. pursuit.
Resting on their oars, they turned to ask after the master.

“Happily no bones are broken, but the flesh is badly
crushed,’? replied Parry, who had been temporarily dress-
ing the wound, in silence. ‘

“Ts it serious, doctor 7?’ : bos

“Only a flesh wound. He'llbe overit soon,” and.Parry
was himself rejoiced to find that the master’s leg had es-
caped the full weight of the reck, although it had been
painfully bruised aud lacerated.

“Give him.some of. tlyis.” ; ee

An! just what 1] wanted,” said, Parry, taking the bot-
tle of liquor from the seaman’s hand, and pouring a little
into the captain’s mouth. A.deep sigh, followed by a
moan, told that consciousness was returning, and pre-
sently the captain woke with a start. The terror of that
terrible death was still upon him. ugh ;

“Be quiet, Redmond, you are safe.”

“Oh, Parry, is that you? How did I come in the boat?
Jack, my good fellow—and you, Harden! Oh! I remem-
ber—you took me from the rock. Sapriste! I’d have
fought the whole coast guard rather than have endured
that half hour.” : :

He tried to rise, but sank back from the pain of his
wound, :

“Keep still, Reamond, your leg is hurt a little?”

“Tell me the truth, Parry—ig it broken?’? Ae

“No, indeed, only a flesh wound.” :

“Ah! 1 gave three of them as bad,’’ said he, with a
laugh, a8 he again rested his head upon the doctor’s
knee. :

Just then a light flashed in his face, and he drew atten-
tion to it.

“Another! ‘Tis the Marquise. The lantern, Jack.”

“Tis under your seat, Harden,’ said the sailor; and
pulling it out the canvas cover was twice removed in the
direction of the former signal.

“'™e@ auswers, captain—not more than a mile away.”?

“Pull for her, men. Do your best, it must be late. No
landing to-night, doctor.’? And seeing the sailors at
work with a will, Captain Redmond gave way to the
drowsy feeling which overcame him, and sank to sleep.

He woke with a start some half hour later as the
wherry struck forcibly against the side of the Marquise.

lt was long alter three o’clock when the master was
raised over the side of his vessel and tenderby laid in his
own bunk. 5
“Put her about, Lovett,” he said to the mate, ‘Our
adventure to-night will make a stir, and we could not go
in’ without attracting suspicion. Put her eut to sea,
Lovett—crowd on sail.”

Phe wind was faverable, and ina short time the Mar-
quise was scudding away trom the English coast.

-Parry dressed the captain’s leg afresh, and found the
injury less than he had supposed when examined in the
dark.

“It will be painful enough, Nick, and you are good for
a week in bed.”?

“No worse?’ asked the captain, with a smile. ‘Ah,
doctor, decter, this would not have happened had you
stood by me jike aman. Suppose I had been caught,
what would your conscience have said ??

“Don’t speak of it, Nick—I lost my senses entirely. You
don’t know how much depends upon my safety.”

“Ips the worth of a neck in either case, doctor. So you
lost your head! A bad thing to-do, as a generai proposi-
tion; especialy so when 1b makes you desert a friend
when 1 58 1

“Say no more sboat it, Nick. Dll add five hundred
pounds to our bond.”

“Agreed! make it.a thousand, and PN swear you
fought hke a Turk.”

“Don’t burthen your conscience with that, Nick; but
justi say nothing about it.” ;

“A good pgaymaster always carries his point,’ said
Redinond, dismissigg the subject. . ‘Send Lovett to me,
will you, doetor?”? : ‘

To the master this night’s adventure was but.a simple
item in a life made up of desperate adventures; and he
thought it a fact of no importance that he had, single-
handed, vanquished three of the queen’s coast guard.

Parry went forward to call the mate, but at the foot of
the companion ladder stumbled over a woman, who was
erouched beside it... «

“You, dame Racuel—you here!’ he said, with a tone of
surprise.

“Yes, Parry, ve been watching for you. Did you not
bid me??? cea
s Apa 1 did not mean you to sit up all night. Come on

eck.’

She followed him like a spaniel, and went aft while he
paused to give the captain’s message to Lovett. The
watch was just called, and again the sailor who haa given
Victorine the word of caution took his place at the heli.

Parry soon joined thedame. Changingsides so that he
could be as near them as possible, the’sailor listened for
some hew development of the plot, of which he already
had a slight idea.

Parry regarded the man keenly, but seemed satisfied
with the scrutiny, and told the dame of his adventure.

“OQ, Parry, why will you risk your life so recklessly ?
Do you ever think what would become of me’ ‘should you
be lost??? ‘ ;

“At least you would be no worse off than whenmTI first
met you.?? 3h Bas

“How can you speak so to me?” she uskea, with ‘a re-
proving tone. ‘Could you place me back as Il was then?
Can you give youth and innocence? ‘Can you restore to
me the many years spent in your service? O, Parry—you
are cruel to me,”? 2

Covering her face, the dame’ sobbed ont some further
charges against him. ;

“Come, come, Rachel, stop erying,
mind enough for one night.
matter let us, zo’ below.
this is ended.”

“How many times have you said that.to me, Parry, and
what have 1 ever gained trom it?”

“Did [not get you the position as Sir Christopher's
housekeeper? Besides, did 1 ever.have a chance like
this? 1t’s the very one I’ve been working for, and now.
you will see‘that tne money spent on these rough men
was not spent for naught. They will work my will to any
extent.”

“Can you depend on them, Parry 2?

“Have I not tested them this very night? They are
under the spell of my gold, and it is a bill which this
maiden must pay.?? j

 

Ive had worry of
'. if you cannot talk. of this
You Know your reward when

defeat you ??

“1 do not intend. to press her claims, but my own.
Through her I intend to make hotii Sir Christopher and
my Lord Burghley use their influence with her Majesty
to make me Percy of Northumberland.”

“You grow bolder, Parry,’? said the dame, actually
startled at the magnitude of the plot which Patry liad
conceived. Could he have seen the malignant look of the
dame at that moment, or had he understood the thrill of
malicious delight which passed through her frame then,
he had not felt so secure in his influence over her.

“Perhaps 80, Rachel; my time has come. Help me
through this and you shall have gold, gold, GoLtp! You
shali have enougn to feast your eyes on for ever.”

The words were bissed)in her ear. Grasping ber wrist
firmly, he gave the word “gold” with increasing emphasis,
well knowing the charm which its very sound had upon
the woman betore him.

Years before she had been asinnocent and as pure as
the maiden who then shnmbered below; but, deceived,
betrayed, her dearest feelings ontraged and trampled
upon, she had since struggied with the world, comug
put of the contest a hardened, revengeful, avaricious
woman. Then her heart throbbed for Jove alowe ;
now it could be moved to a throb only by gold. Every
human feeling. had become subservient to this one all-ab-
gorbing passion.

“There,” said Parry, pushing away the hand, ‘det us
have done with this. Where are the jewels?”

 

 

“You heard her answer???

“But if you press her claim will she not know all, and |

 

“But did you not find out where she Kept them ?”?

“How could I, Parry, without suspicion of my mio-
tives???

“They must be in her box, then; but we must have
them before dawn. What did Sir Christopher say? Hurry,
we have little time left.”

“It’s a long story, but I'll make it agshort asTcan. One
day @ man came to him and they were locked in the li-
brary. I crept into the secret closet, but could only hear
a part of what they said. The sum was that young
Neville had heard that his. cousin was alive,’?

“How could he have heard it?’ asked Parry quickly.

“Dveno idea. He heard she was alive—nay,. more,
that she was near Rouen. He was Searching for her then,
but of course inquiring for her under her ownname. Sir
Christopher was in a dreadful state over the news. Alter
paying tae man he locked all the doors, and unlocked the
cabinet to find the packet.

“He seemed Satisfied it had not been touched, seeing
the dust still on it, and was. careful not to shake it off as
he put it back into the secret drawer.” :

“Fool! how can men be such fools as to keep papers
which must sooner or later betray them,’ said Parry, but
more to himself than to the dame.

It is a question that has often enough been asked both
before and since Sir Christopher Hatton’s time. There
seems to be a fascination about the records of crime which
preserve them; or is it the hand of fate interposing in the
cause of justice and right?

“ie put the packet back again,’? said the dame, with-
out heeding Parry’s remark, ‘and after locking the secret
drawer, called a servant. ‘John,’ Said he, ‘send the house-
keeper in.’ Parry, | nearly fainted from fright.”

“But that was foolish, dame. How would he have
known that you had copied tie letters?” said Parry, see-
ing that she was trembling over the memory of her
former fright,

“You have no pity on me, Parry. You forget that Iam
awoman. Had he accused me then, he would have seen
guilt in my face.”

“Well—the story ??

“He threw himself into a chair when John left, and 1
sprang out into the passage. ‘Dame Rachel,’ he began,
when I went in, ‘take aaeat; 1 have something of import-
ance to tell you.’ . :

“I was glad enough to hide my trembling by sitting,
and he spoke kindly. ‘You may not know,’ said he, ‘that
{have a niece in France?’ ‘How should Ihave known

it?? said J. ‘Truge—well, dame; 1 have a niece in France,
and must bring her to England. very family has some
unpleasant history; have you not found it So, Dame Ra-
chel?’ ‘Certainly, Sir Christopher,’ I answered.

“He went on: ‘It is drue even of the Hatton’s, My sis-
ter’s disgrace is & subject I care not io dwell upon, dame;
nor can I recognise hey child other than as a very distant
relative. You have been a faithiul housekeeper, Dame
Rachel; would you still remaim in my service” ‘I hope
to leave it only when Igo to my grave, Sir Christopher,’
said I, ‘Very good, dame, I will reward you well, and
give you my name, if you agree to what I wish.’ :

“fT assured him that 1 wouid obey him in all things.
‘Good, dame!’ again said he, ‘you are to be an aunt to
this girl, and say that you.are her mother’s sister, dis
tantly related to ine.?. He explained if to me, telling me
the story I wasto remember, ‘You shail be provided with
a cottage—my cottage in London, and enough to live with;
and your sole duty will be to guard my niece, keeping her
from any knowedge of her family, by making her under-
stand that any inquiries would but result in her shame.’
He then offered me

“The chance of going for this girl, which you accepted,
and are now returning with your Charge,’ interrupted
Parry, and speaking rapidly. “I understand it—see that
you keep me informed of-all things, dame, and beware of
acquaintances. You donot know Neville?”

“Or course, I saw him when a boy, Parry; he was often
at Latymer.? pact
“But you would not know ftim now, 80 guard against
all friends. So long ag she: believes herself a peasant
girl there is little fear.”

The dame sighed, and seemed about to reply, but sud-
denly changed her mind.. She was going to tell him tnat
there wus sumething in this girl’s blood which would tell
her soon that she was Hotapeasant,
“On your arrival go to your cottage, Rachel,’ said Par-
ry, “and I will soon join you there. You must make me a
welcome guest—see toit. Now then for these jewels.”
The sailor at the helm had heard but a small portion of
this conversation, but the concluding words were plainly
spoken, and as Parry and the dame went below, he
looked about him for one to give temporary relief.
Lovett himself came ait at that moment, and good.
naturedly offered to take the helm. “It was now near day-
break, and already the east was showing the first signs
of dawn. The Marquise was far away from the English
coast, and was Still heading seaward.
Noiselessly the seaman crept into the cabin, and con-
cealing himself near the conspirators, listened to catch
their plan of action. The cabin lantera had been re-
moved, and they were in total darkness,
“Here is the key,’ said Dame Rachel, coming from
Victorine’s apartment; “O, Parry, do not harm her—
spare her, Parry. Can’t you do without this?”
“What is the matter with you? Do you think lam
going to murder her? Be assured that my desire is to
spare her—come.””
“But spare her feelings, 1 mean—why take these relics
of her mother, when it would break her heart to Jose
thent?? — :
“Because itis necessary, Are yeu afraid? If so, return
to Wales, and [ will find one who will aid me gladly for
the reward that we shall have.’? :
~ «No, no, Pnr not atyaid,? replied she, but with a shud-
der at the bare thought of returning to her life in Wales.
“Pm not afraid, Parry, but | would save her young heart
from tronble—she is so sweet, 80 innocent, So pure, that
I cannot bear to think of filling her heart with sorrow.”

“Well, well, no harm shall come to her, I promise you
that. Itshall be my duty to guard her from it. Goin
now, and stand before her.” '

As hard as she was, Dame Rachel had touches of human
feeling, and even in the short time that they had been
together, Victorine had completely won her sympathy.
Gazing upon her pure tace, the dame was carried back to
the past, and in memory saw her own cluld, which, had
she lived, would now be a maiden; and a mother’s love
pictured her as fair as the girl now in her charge.

It was this thought which made her appeal to Par; to

 

; spare Victorine from sorrow; but he knew weil thu: Vis

tenderness would be cf short duration, and hence pacified
her with a promise which he had no intention of keeping
should it suit him to do otherwise. He knew that. when
weighed with her greed for money, all of her sympathy
would scarcely balauce a single piece of gold.

And why this undue avarice? The sequel will show
that dame Rachel did not hoard her gola for the love of
gold alone, but for a. deeper feeling—a passion which
proved one of the most powerful incentives to human
action, ‘s : j

Fora moment after the two entered the maiden’s room
the seaman waited to see if she would not wake; ‘but
hearing no sound he crept upto the door. The dame was
standing before the sleeping girl. Kneeling beside a box,
with his back to the door, Parry was trying to fit the key
into the lock. Des

He succeedea at length, but no-sooner had he raised the
lid than he received a powerful blow upon the head, and
with a single groan was stretched upon the floor. :

 

CHAPTER VI.
LORD ARUNDEL SAVES THE LIFE OF VICTORINE HATTON,

The blow aimed at the would-be robber was given by
no gentle hand, and with a groan which he could not re-
press Parry sank upon the floor. ! ,
seemed to whirl about him, he did nos quite lose conscious-
ness. ii ,

Dame Rachel's seream roused him a little and with

| great exertion he managed to crawl through the door,

and heard it closed behind him, A drowsy feeling came
over him. How long he remained there he could not tell,
but when he woke to consciousness it Was with an indis-
tinet recoliection of hearing the voices of the women
within after the dame had closed the door,

Daylight had now come, and the first rays of the rising
sun were streaming down the hatchway as he rose and
‘reeled to his) own berth. An application of cold water,
and ashort rest relieved him somewhat; bub it was with

sought Captain Redmona’s room,

“Ah! doctor, 3m glad you have come.
stiff asa spar this morning.”

“Painful, 1 suppose,” said Parry, unwrapping his face.

“Not particularly so;-but—what? Sapriste, doctor, you
look like a ghost.”

“Js a lucky chance that I’m not @ ghost this very min-
ute. Some of your fellows have bea trying toknock me
in the head.”? $y

‘Impossible,’ : : i

**Loeok here ! said he, slowing the heavy bruise npon
his temple; “half an inch higher ap would have made me
a ghost sure enough.?? ‘3

“But how did.it- happen? Were you quarrelling with
them? ‘They are a rough. lot, Parry; as they have to. be
for this business.’

“No, b was not quarrelling; Pve not spoken a word to
one of ‘them. .It was unprovoked.” »

“Then Pilorder him in dvons at once.
it, -doctor ?” : : ] i

“There’s the point; I don’t know who it was; and if I
did nothing coula be done. You see I was trying, to get
something from this girl’s box, and aad just got it open
when some oie gave me this! blow.”

The master roared with laughter,

» “1 suppose you are delighted to see me wounded too.”

“Itisn't that, Parry; but lwas langhing to think that
you should be caught by a sailor. Come, you'll have to
do better than thator I-shall have-to whistle for my mo-
ney.?? :

“Never you fear for that. A broken head will . only
make me the more cautious for the future,—who 1s that?”?
said he, as a rap at tne door drew their attention.

“Lovett, perhaps—open, will you?”

Parry hastily threw on his muffler and stepped aside as
the mate enteretl.

“Weill, Lovett, where is she?”

“No land in sight, captain; but the tide has carried us
down so that we shall make Dover cliff s00n.. Shall I put
about 2??? :

“No; ve changed my mind; we'll goto London direct.
Keep her on, Lovett.” :

With a bow, the seaman backed out of the room.

“You see my confidence in you, Parry. Now I am go-
ing to run into the very jaws of the hon, and on your
promises, If you fail me Ms

“You need not fear, Nick. You can be too useful to
me Loomake me furget you. I know how to manage
Queen Bess in a matter like this.” :

“Keep your compact, and I will keep mine, Parry. I
am heartily tired of this secret life, and want a turn in

Which one was

 

 

But though everything }.

anaching head that he agail assumed his mufflers ana },

"My leg is.as |

 

 

 

 

 

London. Ah, for one hour at old Hacker’s,
rious place that. is.
courtyard.’’

“and that’s what you call amusement? ’Pon my word,
yowrea singular fellow. Does life seem to have no value
to you?”

“With a full purse, yes.
what is life to him???

“And how long would you keepthe full purse If you
had it? How long did it take you to spend the gains of
your piracies on the Spanish main?”

“But there’s pleasure in spending. After all, Parry,
you and I are in the same boat, only you take your money
from women, while ] take mine from men, who are able
to give a few blows in defense of their gold. I take a snip
on the Spanish main; you marry'a woman of wealth, take
her money, and then make her walk the plank.”’ -

Parry was notat all pleased with the comparison, al-
though conscience told him that it wus. true. Redmond
laughed heartily at his own conceit.

“Come, Parry, contess that. 1 am.right—what is life
worth to you without money? Don’t you spend your
time in plots to gain gold? Ah, doctor, we are precious
rascais at best—both of us. The real truth 1s, that ances-
tral pride and personal honor are the only things which
can Keep man honest when poor. You and I have nei-
ther; therefore we do not pretend to stand on a question
of honesty. when there is money to be gained.”

“You are very candid about it,’ said Parry, sullenly;
“how do you know that have not this ancestral pride
youspeak of??? '

“That’s a hint for me—come, out with it. Of what no-
ble house are you the unfortunate scion ?”’. said the mas-
ter, Sarcastically. :

“Shall { tell him,” thought Parry; ‘somewhere I have
heard that.he came from the north; and he oftens peaks
of the Percys. Better wait, perhaps.”

“Are you trying to remember the name, doctor?’

“] remember that, well enough, Nick Kelloway, a8 you
will soonlearn. lam going now toclaim my birthright
at the hands of the queen. I have been deiranded of a
name asnoble as any in England.” f

“Arundel, perchance; or may be you aspire to the noble
house of Percy.’ said the master, witha sneer. ‘Come,
Parry, this‘is.a little too much..1 doubt not you are going
to claim some estate, but that you have the shadow of
right on your side | can’t believe.”?

“Believe what you please.” ;

“Come, Parry, what difference does it make to me
whether you are right or wrong, so you succeed? ve
served many a cause which I knew to be wrong, and
made all. i could out of it——”

“To spend in London,” interrupted Parry.

“You are right there, I’d'sell my soul to Satan. for
money enough to live there for two years more. Pil go
even further, and bind myself to you.??’ :
“Complimentary, to say the least. You can have your
wish if you will do what I desire, and ask no questions.”
“lisa bargain, Parry: For three. years l’ve been
knocked. about on the sea, and now wanta cruise on dry
land. Vd «rather be dare-devil Nick Bravo in London
than respected Captain Redmond, of the Marquise.” .
“Then your wish can be granted. You shall be the cap-
tain of those fellows. we met at the cliff—but never let
them know that they are not serving the party.”

“Never. fear my discretion.”

i “COMI, Nick, my head is bursting. Let melook at your
ieg.

The master’s wound was less serious than they had sup-
posed, and it was now evident that he would be walking
again in a few days. Parry dressed the wound and left
the room, finding dame Rachel sitting near his own door.
“Where is she??? he asked, quickly, gazing around for
the maiden.

“She is on deck; I cannot tarry long with you.
you hurt, Parry?” ;

“TL should say that l was. My skull was nearly broken.
Did you see who it was ?”? ae :

“Tl saw &@ man, but it was too dark to distinguish him.”
‘Should ever | find him out Pl wring his neek like a
chicken. Curse him; but we must have the jewels.??

“They are not here.” ;

“Where are they, then? What did she say?” $
“Y had hard work to pacify her, and told her that I had
been watching her box all night; but that a sailor had
broken in where 1 fell asleep trom fatigue.”

. “She saw nothing ?”? : :

“Wo; 1 had presence of mind enough to stand before
her; but she suspects me, I’m sure.” .

“Then you must be more careful. What did she say
about these relics?”

“She said the robber would have found only a maiden’s
garments in the box, for her souvenirs were left behind.
‘O,’ said I, ‘then you left them with Monsieur Bourgeoise.’
‘No, I did not,’ she replied, ‘out I left them.in a place of
safety, and with friends who promised to aid me in case
of trouble.’ ” : j

“Then she has friends there; can shehave met Neville ?’
nah She believes that her only relative is Sir Christo-
pher. :
“But, dame, these things must be found or we Shall be
defeated sometime. ‘You must get the secret from her or
else I shall have to doit by force.”

“You promised—Parry, don’t harm her.
treat her well.”? ;
“So I will, dame, if she will treat us well. Do you sup-
pose that I shall fet. her stand between us and a vast
estate 2? ;

For a moment the dame pondered the matter. He had
said “us” instead of his usual ‘tme.”? Was it possible
that he repented of the past, and really wished to make
amends? Hope sprang up in her heart, and like a foolish
weman, she gave up-all to him, Pot even remembering
her compassion for this defenceless girl.

“But let us treat her as gently as we can, Parry,’’ she
said, in a low tone; and her sudden change tola him her
secret at once.

“If that will pacify her,” he said to himself, “she shail
have enough of it,’? and again he spoke of Victorine, and
in a way to convince the dame that their interests were
identical. : ty :
“What would be the use of this money unless you were
to share it with me, Rachel?” he said to her. “I do not
plot for myself alone, and if I have seemed harsh and
neglectful at times, necessity compelled me to be, But
all that is past now, and we must work together.’ ,

- “) will do‘all that Ican, Parry; all I ask is a little kind-
ness from you.’

» “You shall have that, and gold too. We mus: not be
seen togetuer. You will see me at the cottage in a day or
two, when I have seen the queen. Goto Victorine now.”’
Dame Rachel rose without a word, but she watched
Parry until his door closed, then went.on deck to.find her
charge. She was leaning on the rail, gazing intentiy
upon pits clit of Dover wiich they were rapidly leaving
behind. *

To this.lone girl England was fairy land—the land of
her ‘brightest: and most. cherished dreams, True the
future seemed almost.a blank to her, but she had all of
the bright hopes of youth, and did not fear the black
clouds which wers looming up before her. Se
Dame Rachel sat down in silence, nor did the maiden
observe her presence until the cliff was growing dim with
distance. The Marquise was running for the mouth of
the Teames, and with a fair wind, which showed of her
mai'velous speed to the best advantage, ;

A better run was never made, butthe master was in no
particular haste to iand. | ee

When Victorine rose the next morning the Marquise
was anchored inthe Tliames, with the city of London in
full view.

She stood like one entranced before a falry-like specta-
cle. For along time she looked in silence, and Dame
Rachel was startled by ihe first words that she uttered.

“Now Lam lappy, aunt; lsee the city where. my poor
mamma used to live. Do you think that I could find her
grave?

“Q no, child, she was buried far away from London.
She lived in the country.”

“Ts it far there, aunt? could I not go there sometime?
I do want to go so much.” sai

“Sometime you may go,” said the dame, absently;
“but you do not ask about our home—would you like to

What a glo-
Many a duel ve had in that old

When a man has not a guinea

Were

T beg you to

see it???

“Can we see it ?”? ’

‘It is just before us—the roof you see there rising from
the trees—that is to be our. home, given us by kind Sir
Christepher.” :

“How pretty it is? and one can see the river from its
windows... Doe you. think mamima ever saw it, Aunt???

}she replied; “she thinks of her mother in everything.”
“Have you. any one coming for you, madam,” Lovett
asked, at that moment; ‘do you expecta boat fromi tie
shore??? . ; : : pats *

“No one knows that we are coming.”

“True. I forgot that we were mot expected here. The
captain orders me to put you ou shore when ‘you will.”?

“Let us get ready, Victorine; we are at. home new,’

said the daine; but Victorine did not hear. She was look-
ing intently toward the, little cottage. ;
.. ©Waitfor me here, Victorine; 11] come ina moment,”!
‘Dame. Rachel remarked, as anew idea came into her
head, and hastening down the ladder she looked about
for Parry. She wished a few words with fim, before they
left. + + i

He was no where in sight, and calling the maiden down,
the two made their preparations for departure. Some
half-hour later they were on deck waiting for the boat.
Parry, stood near, muffled up to the eyes, while beside
| bim sat the master, who had been brought on deck ‘ina
‘chair. This hour the river presented an animated appear-
ance. The. white sails of merchant vessels coming in
from foreign ports, or leaving with rich cargoes of mer-
chandise,-were seen on.every side; barges ladened with
grain were floating by; and numerous pleasure boats
were gliding about as if at play with. ‘he river and each
other.

Every few moments boatscame alongside the Marquise,
bringing officialg and others to see Captain Redmond;
and Victorine gazed.at them with aswelling heart as she
thought that these men were her countrymen. Sinceshe
could remember the number. of English that she had. seen
wag very limited. =H

Standing by the rail Victorine could not help hearing
some of the conversation with the master,

“You've heard the news, I suppose?” said oue,. who
seemed to be an official of sonte kind.

“What news??? asked the master; ‘we have just cast
anchor, and bave heard nothing.as yet.”

“It is allover town. Night before lasi the coast-¢uard
was attacked, and nearly all were killed. A party of
some. fifty men landed on the coast, and after defeating
the guard escaped, carrying off their wounded,” :

“Who could they have been ??* ‘

“The Catholic party, it is said, who were trying to land
arms and ammunition... Only the bravery of the guard
prevented them from carrying out. their plan; and the

 

“She, thinks of nothing else,” the dame, thought, ere]

 

 

“It was indeed,” said the master, with an assumed ade.
miration. “They must have fought desperately,”

“They must have done so. Js lucky for you, captain,
that you are laid up, and have so few men; for every ves-
ernment inspectors have been on board already.” —~

“Several of them. Getting my leg crushed by my boat
may have been a good thing for me after all?

“If it had been a sword cut, or a shot, you would have
been arrested at once, I’m. sure.’? j dt

For some moments this conversation went on, while
Parry, again a decrepid man with a troublesome cough,,
stood by to listen. When the party had left Redmond,
burst out with a hearty laugh, drawing Victorine’s atten-
tion. ; j
“Did you ever hear anything like that, doctor? Promo-.
ted ! and again the master laughed loudly. ‘But that is
the way with most of them who fight on the strongest
side. One man fights a dozen of them, and they magnify
him into fifty men--a fine report goes to headquarters, »
and then—promotion.”? ; {ii

‘Do you think the guard lied about it?” i ;

“Of course they did; but they believed it, You never:
could make one of them believe that a singleman did the
whiole thing.” i

“Such is fame.’? i :
_ “Fame of that kind means, taking care to biow your
own horn. I should like to fight on the strong side for
once—I’d go the top in a year.” : 5

Captain Redmond paused, as he saw the maiden’s eyes
fixed upon him with a wondering gaze. She had heard
all, anda dim suspicion of the truth was begianing to
creep over her mind. She now thought of several little .
occurrences of that night, which had seemed unimportant
then. But her eyes fell before the master’s gaze, and &;
shudder came over her as she encountered the snaky
look of the muffled passenger. igptial

The two men spoke in a low tone for.2 moment, leaving;
no doubt that she was tlie object of their remarks. :

“The boat is ready,’’ said Lovett, with a bow to the
ladies. ‘Will you go on shoreat once?”

“We are ready,’? said the dame, stepping forward to”
bid adieu to the master.

Victorine was just stepping toward the ladder, when —
an exclamation from the:passenger attracted lier atten-°
tion, He had said something to the master, and was
now Cautiousiy peering over the side.

‘Is it coming here?’ asked the captain.

‘No, I believe not—it’s a pleasure boat.
it’s the earl himself.’

“phe earl?” 3 ; :

“Arundel! he is looking sharply enough, as his men
pull against the stream.”

Victorine started suddenly at the sound of that name,»
and paused to look at the boat. A pleasure-barge, pulled
by four strong oarsmen, was slowly passing, while be-
neath the canopy at the stern. reclined ‘4 remarkably
handsome and distinguished looking young man. 1

“Arundel !? «she repeated, to ‘herself; ‘*where have I!
heard that name? It seems familiar to me—it seems like
a name which has always haunted my childish dreams.’
Something that fell upon her ear drove away the fancy.
which had checked her steps. . fi

“It would be a misfortune if he should see her,” Parry
said, ‘for should he recognise her itis up with us. i
doubt that he could—but do not wish to run the risk ;
now.??

Of whont-were they speaking, was it of herself and this
young earl? Victoriue’s heart throbbed wildly as she -
thought that these men might Know of some family con- ;
nexion between this nobleman and herself..- :
“He is far enough now,’ said Parry; and the master ~
told them that the boat was ready; the remarks showing
Victorine that they had been detained on board until the :
earl’s boat had passed. __ ; f
Although she obeyed mechanically the instructions
given her, the maiden could not take her eyes from the
young man in the boat. He, too, was looking at her, but.
idly, a8 young men usually gaze at pretty maidens.

“Hold fast!” cried a sailor, “hold fast there, Harden;
be careful mistress—wait 28: f ;
He spoke quickly, and sprung up to aid the. maiden as »
he saw the stern of the boat swing away from the vessel;
but before he could take. her hand she had missed her
footing, and with a cry fell into the stream. et
“Catch her there—loose the rope—cut it,’?,and half-a-
dozen other shouts were heard in a second;: but instead |
of attending to this, all_on board had rushed ait to see >
the maiden as she floated down on the tide, j

In vain the master called to them; but seeing that they .
were too much excited to heed him, the brave man threw |
himself upon the deck, and, regardless of the pain it gaye’
him, hitched along to the rope, releasing the beat. i

It was too late then. The earl had seen the fall, an
ere the ship’s boat was free, his own barge was rushing
by with all the speed that four strong men could give it.
“There she is!. There,’’? they cried from the deck, half-
a-dozen hands pointing to where the maiden had risen to
the surface. j f
The earl was standing in his boat. ready to catch the
drowning girl as he passed; and he saw her garments but
& Second as she rose, only to sink again immediately. ‘
Like an arrow the barge shot by the spot; .but witha.
spring the earl* dove under water, and soon reappeared
With the maiden in his arms. Holding her head above
water with his ieft. hand, he struggled mantfully with the
waves until his boat came back. Catching the bow with .-
bis right he raised her from the stream, and both were -
speedily drawn into the barge. j ‘
“He has her—he’s bringing her up,’’ said Parry, greatly — .
excited, rushing to the master; “he’ll come on board.” — ,
Sapriste! doctor, what’s to be done? Can he know
ler? , g ) ‘ ted RS :
“f hope nat; but he must not see me; Vl go below.
Here they are. Damel’’ said he to dame Rachel, who sat
weeping on the deck, wringing her bands and rocking
her body to and fro.

“O Parry, she is dead—she is drowned !!

“Vist! she’s saved. Gneis bringing her who must not
see me—you understand. Watchelosely.. If he-seems to
recognize her tell me atonce. Tell me all that happens.”
He had no time to say more, for the barge was already
alongside of the Marquise, and the seamen were raising
tne unconscious maiden over the. side. Very tenderly
these rough men held the fair girl and almost reverently.
laid her upon a sail spread on tne deck. i :

he young earl sprang over the side. For a moment he
spoke to the master, then turned to tne maiden. Her -;
head, was reclining in. the lap of dame Rachel, who was
weeping loudly, and chafing the coid hands in her own.
The earh gave some airections for tie resuscitation of
drowning persons which he had read in foreign books,
and in a moment or two there came some relies, Victo-
rine’s heart was beating strengly, but she was uncon-
scious, At Jength her head rolled over toward the eart,
and with a sudden start her eyes opened with a fright-
ened look, but instantly closed slowly and wearily, while
a smile played about her mouth, ' :

The earl sprang to his feet. That look—that smile had
brought a face before him which be had not seen for
many a year. Intently re now gazed into. that marble-
like countenance, trying ia vain to tell himself who it was.
she resembled. He feil on one knee beside her, and
pushed back the mass of dank golden hair; but the dame
had seen his look, and instantly threw her mantie over
the maiden’s face, ; ; s

‘Who is it, madam, pray tell me, who is this maiden.
Is she not a 2 . ee

“Victorine Hatton, my lord,” the dame
quickly. :

“Hatton—Hatton!? he mused over the nani

“Sir Christopher's neice, ny lord.”?, = :

‘She looks not like a Hatton. None of Sir Christopher's
family have hair like hers. It belongs to but one name
in England. : eee

*But she las lived all her life in France, where she was
born. ‘This’the first tume she was ever in England.”

Dame Rachel trembled @ jittle over the falsehood, but
fearing that Parry might accuse her of want of tact in-
answering him, she went even further than was neces-
sary. ; :

“She must have a surgeon at once; I will go for one,”
Said the earl, starting for his boat.

“Will you accept some dry clothes, my lord?’ Captain
Redmond asked, ; : :

‘Thank you, no; I have no time to lose: Unless pre--
vented by circumstances, I will bring a doctor in less
than an hour. Keep her warm, dame,” said he, taking.
one more glance at the unconscions maiden, and then
quickly sprang into his boat.

With all speed the bargemen pulled away for the city.
It ds very strange,” the earl theught, when clear of
the ship; ‘‘very strange, indeed. I could alinost swear’
she is not a Hatton. MH she is not some kin to my cousins
of Latymer, then I am greatiy mistaken. Lady Anne
Shall see her,”?

And with a new order to his men urging them. to great.
er speed, he threw himself back on the seat to follow the
thought, which so perplexed his mind, ! ene

No sooner had he left the side of the Marqnise than
dame Rachel rushed below. She found Parry listening
by the companion way.

“He has gone for a surgeon, Parry.’?

‘7 heard it. Did: he know her??? soc

“At least he.saw. enough to make him suspect. He.
started when she opened hereyes. What is te be done?”

“Curse hlim—we must get her away before he returns.”

“Will it not be dangerous to move her now???

“She must be moved,’? said Parry with a frown. ~ “We.
nist go at once before he hag time to trace us,’ .

Wrapping bis muffler still higher on his face, Parry fol-
lowed the dame on deck. ;

For a moment he examined the maiden, then turned to
the master and spoke in low tones. The sailor, who had
taken.so deep an interest in the maiden, was standing
near. He listened intently, and caught the word ‘‘cot-
tage,” as he followed Parry’s hand pointing toward two
or three, some half a mile away. :

With great haste they now placed the insensible girl in
the boat, and pulled ashore in ine direction of the cotta- +
ges. Parry remained long enough, to ¢et a conveyance,
then took the boat back to the Marqnise. The sailor fol-
lowed the carriage with his eyes until it Was Jost to view,
and saw the direction it had taken. af

Scarcely. three-quarters of an hour bad passed ere thle
eari’s barge came down the river irom tne city, bringing
a surgeon... Parry again went below. ‘

Quickly springing on deck the earl looked around for
the maiden, boa
“She has been taken below, perhaps??? said the éarl,
addressing Captain Redmend. ; :
“Oh, no, my lord; her friends came for her from the

shore. They thought best to take her at once.”

“Where nave they taken her!) Suspecting that all was
not rignt, the earl looked at the muster sharply.

“They said not where they were going; but desired me

By my faith

 

 

interrupted

They left many thanks for you,” :
The earl said ho More, but nodding the master adieu,

 

 

 

captain has been promoted for his daring. It was a plucky
thing to attack so many.” :

started for his boat, with his eyes bent on the deck in

 

 

 

sel that arrives is closely examined. Idare Say the goy-

to say thar your Jordship shogld soon hear from her ~

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thought. In the ship's boat, moored alongside, a sailor
was sitting, and he managed to attract the earl’s atten-
‘tion by pressing one finger upon his lip.

The yesture was understood. Turning his back to the
geaman the earl seemed to be conversing with the sur-

eon.

“What is it, my good man?’ said the earl, with an ac-
cent that could not be distinguished above.

“There ts treachery here, my lord. No friends came for
her, but 2 man in disguise on board sent her onshore to
avoid your lordship.”

“A disguised passenger ???.

«Ves, my lord. He went below when the barge return-
ed. - The maiden has been taken to some cottage—one of
those directly before your face, my lord—hist !?

A face had appeared above, and the sailor had one
glimpse of the muffled man. Arundel looked up, and Par-
xy started back.

“Can you Meet me on shore ?’’ said the earl.

Perhaps. Ill try, my lord.’?

“You«may meet one of my men on London bridge to-
night; he will bring you to me.”

“Tf impossible to-night, to-morrow.’?

“Well—thanks, my good fellow; you shall be rewardea
handsomely,” said the earl, throwing two or three pieces
of gold into the small boat. Before the barge was fairly
off the gold was thrown back again, and fell at Arundel’s
feet.

“That is no common sailor,’’ said the surgeon, picking
ap the gold. ‘

“T am sure of that, doctor. I suspected it when I first
saw his face. What can he be doing in that position?”

No amount of speculation could solve that problem,
and while the surgeon was telling stories of the strange
disguises that he had met, the earl was gazing intently at
the cottages on the shore, trying. to:fancy ‘that one con-
tained the maiden he ‘had saved from death. :

“Tf she is there Tshall find her,” he said to himself;
“put I may learn more from-this seaman—if seaman he
be.

(To be continued.)

‘{GoLp Dust DARRELL; or, THE WIZARD OF THE MINEs,
By Burke Brentford, Author of Squirrel Cap ; anda True
Love Story, entitled, TRUE aS LovE CouLD MakE Her,
will be commenced next week.) Fd

 

Lady Julictte’s Seeret,

BY THE PEERLESS AUTHOR
Of ‘Peerless Cathleen,’ ‘‘Scheming Madeton,?’
ssLady of Grand Court,’? and ** Rose of
ay . - Kendale,?? &c., &e.

 

[Lady Juliette” was commenced in No.43. Back numbers
be had from News Agents throughout the country:}

t . CHAPTER XixX.

‘On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light,

AsI have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night.

' —LOCKSLEY lI ALL.

- At first Lady Juliette did. not recognize the school-
master. ‘She started backward alittle into the moonlight,
and the soft radiance fell full upon the beautiful anxious
face; the curious, perplexed look wasin the-blueeyes, ttie
fair brow was knitted into an expression of distrust and
alarm... ‘Fernandez was the first to speak.

‘Have I the honor of awaiting the commands of the
Lady Juliette’ Cadette ?’? . ; ee

Fernandez spoke in ‘a: low voice, and bowed low with
that courtly chivalry that was habitual to him.

“Oh, Mr. Fernandez,’’ cried Lady Juliette, and there
was a ring of reassurance in her voice.

‘Little did the earl’s' beautiful daughter imagine that
she was the wedded wife of this young man in humble
life, toward whom she entertained a gentle and kindly
feeling, it is true, but no. sentiment even bordering upon
the desperate and passionate adoration with whiclr he re-
garded her. She had married a foreigner with a fair
beard and thick flaxen: hair, a man whom, in: her small

_ knowledge of the world, in her ignorance of human ‘ile,

and its tornado-like passions, she still imagined was a
mere legal obstacle between her enemies and herself.
With this man she had'parted at the church door; he was

|. gone on his way with his two hundred pounds; yet he

was within call, so that she could sammon him at any
tite, if she desired a protector tostand between her and
the odious Sir Guildford’ Owen. Thatiman, that husband,
Was as nothing in her eyes; in her youthful ignorance sne
believed she was nothing in his. How should this hand-
some villager, with his nobly cast head and passionate
dark eyes, be identified in any way with that person?
Never was thought further from any human brain. And
he, how shall we even attempt to portray his feelings—
the love which glowed in his heart like a hall-smothered
volcano, the consciousness, at once bitter and burning,
tiiat'Ne/desperately loved his wife, that she was his wife,
and that he was separated from her for ever; pound by
every principle of nianly honor that he should absent
himself from her so long as they both should live ?
_ “Is Mr. Clenham at home?” inguired Lady’ Juliette,
“He is expected every moment,’ responded Fernandez.
—Tuliette turned her head aside alittle brusquely. She
‘appeared to be lost in thought; then, tapping her ‘small

‘foot half-impatiently on the gravel path, she called aloud,
. “Binette, Finette,’ whereupon the garden gate swung

- back, and the Italian girl came lightly tripping tothe side
of ler mistress. he :
» “Mr, Oienham is out,” said Juliette, speaking rapidly,
“and we have no time tolose, Mr. Fernandez will telius
as well and as honestly as Mr. Clenham himself.’!
The heart of Fernandez leaped with joy on hearing Ju-
liette speak of him thus Kindly and confidently. ‘
“Mr. Bernandez,’? she said, “you have heard of my
flight from Maberly, and you must know something of
itscause. An odious marriage was forced upon me, and
i went away to avoid it. The person to whom they would
have married meis, they say, shot dangerously ia the
head and in the chest; he trembles in the balance between
life and death—this, at least, is the newspaper account—
and I might reasonably conjecture that 1 no longer had
vanytiting to fear from the persecutions of this gentle-
‘man. Butis this a true statement, or have I only been in-
veigied by a story? Tell me, I pray of you, for 1 would wil-
lingly return to the shelter of Maberly and to the protec-
tion of my guardian, so long as I have nothing to fear
from the persecutions of Sir Guildford Owen.”

“Sir Guildford Owen,” replied Fernandez, “is really.

seriously, [may say, desperately wounded, It was I who
discovered him lying senseless in Allonby Woods. It is
the opinion of the doctors that, even should he recover,
he will stoop from his chest for the remainder of his life.
T)en there is a wound in his tread, and should inflamma-
tioh of tle brain set in, serious fears are entertained for
his reason. Thereis no danger, I should say, Lady Juli-
ette, that Sir Guildford would ever again persecute you
with his addresses. You may safely return to Maberly.”

“And 80.1 will,” cried Juliette, impulsively. “My guar-
dian has always been kind to me, save only in this one
respect. He inserted’ an advertisement in the 7imes,
which I read this morning. It ran thus:

“ ‘Jaliette. The danger which you dreaded is past.
Return home at once; a warm welcome awaits you.
Your childish impatience Shall be forgiven.’

“Finette and myself left our quiet lodgings, where we
were living under assumed names, in the greatest seclu-
sion, and hastened dowa to Allonby. But before pre-
senting myself at the Abbey, I was determined to ask Mr.
Clenham ifthe story were true—you would not betray me,
surely, would you??? she added, speaking as thongh a
sudden thought had struck her, “J have no confidence
in Mr. Upperton; he has such notions about obedience
and disebedience, and the duties of children to their guar-
dians, that he seems to forget the duties of guardians and
elders toward the young and weak. But'you surely have
more generous ideas—you are a friend of Mr, Clenham’s;
he is nobieness itself—surely you would not betray me?”
She asked the question so simply, so suddenly, with such
a childlike innocence and pathos, that the lover husband
yearned to fold her in his arms, to cast himself at her
feet; as it was, he lost some portion of his self-command,
and answered, in a low and trembling voice:

?

“J would rather die a thousand deaths.”

Juliette started at the concentrated fervor of his tones.

The pent-up volcano of his love was ready to burst forth
into flaming words; but he restrained himself. Juliette
went close to him aad laid her small white hand in his, it
was the second time she had so condescended toward
the young Village schoolmaster. :

“Mr, Fernandez,’’ she said, ‘I trust you. Good night.”

Then she tripped lightly away, followed by Finette.

“We have-nothing to fear,” cried the Italian girl. ‘All
goes well. Ah, how I wish we had waited until this good
robber shot the troublesome rich man in this way! Now
you see your ladyship is forced to lead a single life, for
you have a greater repugnance. toward your husband,
With his fawn-colored beard, his bushy flaxen hair, his
slow, cold nature, and his common birth, than toward Sir
Guildford himself., What a pity—what a pity that you
can’t marry !’ : ;

“TI do not regret.the step at all,’”? replied Juliette, calm-

_ly. “I always wished to lead a single life; I value liberty

more than any other gift under the sun, lonly wish that
I had more fortune, then I could do more good.”
. The two youthful female figures glided across the park
in the Moonbeams. Every now and then they paused, as
a herd of deer went scampering by, for there were one or
two dangerous bucks among them which had been known
to attack women and children. But they reached the
-terrace steps in safety; the large pond, with its yellow
basin and fountain of Italian marble, glimmered in tne
moonlight; so did the white statuettes, and the large
stone vases where autumn shrubs and flowers were bloom-
‘ing. They went under the portico, and Finette rang the
‘bell. Almost immediately the hall door was opened, and
the young fugitives stood amid the blazing lights in the
“magnificent hall, surrounded by the pompously clad,
liveried servants, who hailed their arrival with a low, re-
spectful murmur of welcome. It was understood among
the household that the beautiful young ward of the colonel
had run away from Maberly, solely to.avoid a marriage
that was odious to her, and the sympathies of the servi-
tors were all enlisted in herfavor. Down the grand stair-
case came the light footsteps of Florence Random: she
was singing an Italian cavatina, at the very highest pitch
of her soprano yoice—she alighted in the hall, and made
Juliette a low, sweeping courtesy.

“And so your little ladyship has thought fit to return 1°?
she cried, “after frightening us-all to death, and getting
talked about in the newspapers—though your name was
not mentioned in the newspapers, tobe sure. But there
Were mysterious hints, which must have set all the gos-
sips in the kingdom wondering. And so you thought
there was no place like home, after all. I think you are
wise, my dear. How in the world have they cooked for

fortable you must have been! Nothing to eat, and noth-
ing to wear; you left almost all ‘your clothes behina you;
I suppose you have not bought any hew ones. Been too
busy hiding yourself, or teaching tie poor—which? Both,
I suppose. Poor little Juliette! Ihave been so sorry for
you. Come upstairs and make an elegant toilette—Finette
will heip you. There is such a chance for you, my dear.
The eldest son of the Marquis of Crossby met with an ac-
cident yesterday. In returning from the races at Bes-
borough, he was thrown out of his trap, and stunned.
He recovered almost immediately, but as this was the
nearest house, his friends brought him on here. He
seems to like his quarters immensely, has been flirting
desperately with me; he is very handsome, has thirty
thousand a year, independent of bis father, is fast and
fashionable, and everything that is delightful; and now
that poor Sir Guildford 1s out of the way, 1am sure the
colonel will have no -objection to your making yourself
an and adorable in the eyes of this eligible young
noble.

There was a recklessness about Florence which aston-
ished Juliette. There was a wildness in her eyes, a hys-
terical sound in her mocking laughter, which had never
been characteristic of the haughty dashing belle. Juiiette
knew very little of the world, although she was wise with
a wisdom beyond her years. Her knowledge was derived
from books, rather than from men and women, and when
she had heard Florence disclaim the: possibility of her
ever marrying, state that she desired to live a life of
liberty, and declare that she had-abandoned all thoughts
of love and home ties, she had believed the young lady
implicitly. She was surprised, then, to see this unwonted
disturbance of the ordinary self-command ‘and serenity
that had distinguished Miss Random, Her heart was not
in her words. It was easy enough even for Juliette to see
that Florence was not in the ‘slightest interested ‘in this
handsome Lord Linden, despite is thirty thousand a year,
and his fast and fashionable manners. i

Lady Juliette went to her room ana Finette assisted her
to dress. She wore a black satin, with an over-skirt of
rose-colored silk. This suited well witn the pale statu-
esque style of her beauty. One crimson rose she wore in
her dark ‘hair, but no jewels glittered on: her. white throat

marms. She was received by her guardian and Mrs.

hilbertson with a kindly and polite welcome; pot a word
was spoken in allusion to her strange flight The rules
of good breeding were strictly attended to at Maberley
Abbey. The well-ordered household held its peace. Lady
Juliette had gone away, Lady Juliette had returned. No
matter for comment was found in either circumstance; or
rather, if anybody talked about it, they had sense enough
not to talk too loud; no echoes of gossip or scandal
reached the ears of the placid Mrs. Philbertson, or the
proud and pompous colonel. : ‘

It was difficult for Juliette to realize, as she sat at the
luxurious and elegant table of her guardian, waited upon
by gorgeous servitors, arrayed in all the pomp® of purple
and gold lace, while hothouse flowers, golden’ plate,
dainty dishes, sparkling wines, all the accompaniments
of thestately feast, testified to the splendor and luxury
of the owner of the mansion—it was difficult, we say, for
Juliette to realize that she had. been living for thie last
three weeks in cheap and'simple lodgings, possessing no
further Charm than tneir cleanliness, their quietness, and
their obscurity.. It was difficlt for Juliette ‘to believe,
while she Sat side by side with Lord Linden, receiving lis
marked peculiar attentions, smiled upon by her guardian,
and tacitly encouraged by her guardian’s wife, that she
had for ever placed herself beyond the pale of any pos-
sible marriage, that she had contracted a terrible mésat-
tiance, that she was the possessor of a secret which all
her world would consider fearful did they know of. it—
Lady Juliette’s secret |

ilere she was—burdened with it for life! She had
thought to spend all her years in obscurity, and under'a
false name; but now the necessity for that was past. Sir
Guildford (so his physicians said) would never be in a po-
sition to enforce his claims to her hand; she had nothing
more to dread from him. And here she was burthened
with a mystery—weighed down by a secret! She must
sit and smile as though nothing were the matter; nay,
she try to forget it. i

‘‘And it will be no hard task,’) said the young beauty to
herself; ‘for I have made up my mind to never to love
anybouy; I shall lead quite a different life. I shall strive
to love everybody, and do good to all.”

in this philanthropic mood Lady Juliette was ‘content
to remain for the present. | :

Lord’ Linden was a remarkably iandsome man, an in-
veterate pleasure-seeker, an enthusiastic admirer of fe-
male loveliness; he was fickle a8 the wind, careless, ex-

travagant, an enormous favorite with the ladies—a prize |

coveted by Belgvavian motliers, and sighed for in secret.
by many a'fair anil titled maiden; lie stood six feet high
without his shoes; his complexion was fair and beautiful;
his curly auburn hair was the subject of much animated
and warmly-expressed admiration. It would really not
be too much to say—using the words in a conventional
sense—that Lord Linden was adored in the Maytair cir-
cles, his worshipers, be it understood, being all of the
fairer sex. ‘ ;
_ When dinner was over, Mrs. Philbertson led the way
into the drawing-room. Once there, Floreuce sank upon
an ottoman, and clapped her hands.

“The prim little nun is changing her character,’’ she
cried. ‘My dear Mr. Philberston, did you notice how
abominably our Juliette flirted with the heir to the Mar-
quisate of Crosby? Now what would she say to me were I
to let his lordship know the nice dance her little lady-
ship has been leading us for the last three weeks? How
do we know where she has been living in London? J am
sure it would spoil her. chance of coming in, some day,
for those great Yorkshire estates, wortn four hundred
thousand a near, if my lord Knew ail. How calm yon look,
Juliette; why she does not even color. Poets and senti-
-mentalists, now, would speak of the divine repose ex-
pressed on that beautiful little face. But f£ consider it a
species of brazen impudence to be able to take one’s
place again in the family Circle, as‘though nothing was

ter!??
_ Here Florence began to sung:
“Then up and. down the house he went, arranging dish and

atter,
wit) adull and heavy countenance, as if nothing were the
matter.” 2

“I trust, Florence,’ said Mrs. Philbertson, speaking in
her calm, passionless tones, ‘that you have no intention
of disgracing Juliette, and of requiting the kindness and
hospitality which it’ has always been our wish to show
toward you, by disclosing the family secret which circum:
planes have, unhappily, left at the mercy of your discre-
tion. ‘

“Dear me, what a nice speech !’’ cried Florence. “I
wish I could talk so wisely, so calmly, and so well; how-
ever do you manage it, Mrs. Philbertson? and you have
taught Juliette just the same. She always speaks so
‘calmly; if she puts on a rose-colored upper skirt, or
twines a flower into. her hair, itis done with a sort of
salctified meaning. Even if she runs away for three
weeks, and novody knows, meanwhile, where she is, she
just comes back’ again, looking more like a young nun
than ever, and takes her place at the dinner-table by the
side of my young Lord Linden, and wins his heart as
papily as if it were half-a-crown at a game ot three card
00. : :

A reckless light shone in the eyes of Florence; with all
and through all her chattering nonsense, there was a ring
of ap bRelunen a tinge of anxiety, a look haif-angry,
nalf-sad. ‘ 4

could never be made to understand a joke, returned to the

to expose the secret of Juliette’s flight.

“Of course, Miss Random, if we hear that anything
has been said, we shall understand quite well that it 1s
you who have spread the news of lady Juliette’s most
imprudent conduct.” po ae

“{n which case, you know,’’ said Florence, “you can
forbid me the house, and speak a bad word for me every-
where in society. Society will be so glad to hear tt; so-
ciety always isif it be anything bad. Seriously, though,
Mrs. Philbertson, lam not going to spoil Juliette’s chance
in life. She may act the saint as much as she likes, and
I shall hold my tongue about her imprudent flight to Lon-
don. I wonder now very much whether Linden would be
disinterested enough to marry her, considering that, with
all her beauty, she has nothing but her hundred a-year,
hardly enough to keep her in clothes. I have studied
these great partis very much, my dear, and they are the
most selfish creatures in the world, they scarcely ever fall
victims to their young affections, not once in five hundred
times, and he would not marry Juliette for the sake of
her family, for his own is as good, if not ‘better, I know
what those Crosbys are in spite of their wealth; they are
the greediest folks, in existence, Depend upon it, he and
bis family are looking out for some colossal fortune to
join in with his own, Iteally do not think Juliette would
have the shad chance, between you and me and
the post, if you will forgive my using slang.” :

Florence had all the talk to herself. Juliette was once
or twice upon the point of statingin her calm, innocent
fashion that it was not her intention ever to marry; but
she restrained herself, thinking wisely there was time
enough for her to express her determination on that head
after she should have received two’or three offers.

Just at this juncture the gentlemen came in, and Lord |

Linden at once approached Lady Juliette, and took up his
place at her side. His lordship had been accustomed .to
universal adulation ever since he came of age, some four
years before, and there was something in the calm and
serious manner of Juliette which piqued his curiosity, ex-
cited his admiration, and altogether fascinated him for
atime. He had flirted with Florence all the morning,
and he now transferred his attentions to Juliette, without
a moment’s consideration, or one single pang of com-
punction. Such a thought never once eatered: his hand-
some head, with its splendid covering of curly, auburn
hair. He asked Juliette to play, and she played; he asked
her to sing, and she sang; he paid her extravagant com-
pliments, and she neither smiled nor blushed, looked
neither displeased nor gratified. :
This strange young girl, who had undertaken to tive in
the world as though not of 1t; who believed that she had
counted the cost when sie made the great sacrifice of
uniting herself to a person whom she hoped and expected
never to see again, was in reality, at this period of her
life, raised completely above all earthly passions, hopes.
Lord Linden’s beauty, Lord Linden’s family, Lord Lin-
den’s title, Lord Linden’s enormous wealth, were all as
so many worthless baubles in her eyes, She may have
felt a little regret that she had been so precipitate, that
she had not waited a few weekslonger; but how was she
to Know that Sir Guildford O.ven was coming to such se-
rious grief? It was impossible that she could tell; she was
no prophetess. She had made her own bed, and she must
lie upon it; she must carry her strange secret about with

 

her as long as she lived, and go down fo her grave with
it still unrevealed, She had every faith in Finette.

Mrs. Philbertson, who was a very literal lady, and who

yousince you have been away? How immensely uncom-

the matter—absolutely, as though nothing was the mat- |

charge once more, and seriously begged of Florence not.

 

CHAPTER XX.
Fear not thou to loose thy tongue;
Set thy hoary fancies free;
What is loathsome to the young
Savors well to thee and me. TENNYSON.

All the household of Maberly Had retired to their rooms
for the night. The sick man slept an uneasy sleep,
watched over by his nurses and attendants—as yet Sir
Guildford had not recovered consciousness; Mrs. Phil-
vertson lay buried in the profoundest'of slumbers; Juli-
ette, closeted with Finette, discourse on the past events,
and discussed as to the best method of keeping the
strange secret a secret for ever; Lord Linden, who ha@
drank a good deal of wine, lay in a feverish sleep under
his silken canopy, dreaming dreams in-which Juliette
and Florence alternately figured, sometimes as witches
of the Brocken, sometimes as fairies riding in the air in
golden chariots drawn by white swans.

But there were two in that household who held fierce
parley in alarge and handsome sleeping chamber, appro-
priated on occasions to the colonel’s own use. It was a
chilly autumn evening, and a fire burned in the grate.
Two men stood by the high carven miantel-shelf. One
was the colonel, the other was Mapleton. The latter
iooked as fierce as a tiger just escaped from a jungle, and
eager for its prey; his teeth were clinched, his eyes glis-
tened, his very mustache seemed to bristle with rage.

pallor-about his lips, he spoke passionately, yet there was
a concentrated and stealthy fear expressed in every mo-
tion of his frame, in every tone of his voice. :

“Have Tnot ‘done enough for you?’ he said. “Have
I not settled a large income on you? Are you not
comparatively a rich man? Js not my house, with all its
Juxuries and comforts, open to you? DoT not introduce
you toall my gay friends?’ Have Lnot promised in the
London season to look out for youarich bride? What
more ¢an I do for you???

“TI do not covet a rich bride,’? responded Mapleton.
curling his mustached lip yet more bitterly. “If yonder
cold, scornful tigress, Florence Random, had not a sec-
ond dress, nay, were she clothed in rags and shoeless, I
should still covet her above all others, You remember
me of old, Richard; you remember when I was the most
dashing dragoon in the —th regiment, you remember that
I never spared man in my wrath, or woman in my love.
Money I sought, it is true, but only a8 a means to an end.
Since those days I have worn a convict’s chain, I have
smarted under the lash of the jailor—since that I have
wandered barefoot, begged my bread from door to door;
that was while you were on the continent, and had not
this war driven you home, F might have been so wander-
ing still; but notwithstanding all that is passed, my
nature remains the same. Ihave set my heart on win-
ning and wedding this Florence Kaadom. -The more she
hates me the more. she fascinates me. Unless you help

Pme, I don’t care if I betray you, if I let all the world know
the share you had in the death of the Harl of ——.”

“Hold! hold! The share-I took?” cried the colonel;
‘when you, you—it was your murderous hand that drove
the Knife into his trusting heart.”

“And where were you?” growled the other. “Did not
youstand by—wince and turn pale, butstill stand by? And
who helped to bury the dead? and who seized upon the
spoil’ and who came back and fattened upon it? I—I
Was supposed to have been shot through the heart by
Greek brigands three years before that. You knew the
life 1 had been leading; that I was one of those brigands,
I had been mourned for as dead by my father and mother.
Afterward 1 came back to England, and was engaged in
a bold burglary—a desperate altack on a ducal house. I
was taken With the sparkling spoil--rubies, emeralds, and
diamonds, crowding in my pockets like sugai-plums in
those of the school-boy. Besides all this. 1 had shot a
servant to the death; so I was sentenced to fifteen years’
penal servitude, I served under the name of Jonas Stock.
You alone of all the world knew that my real name was
Robert Philbertson; that I was the youngest of three
brothers, the eldest of whom was then reigning in state
at Maberly Abbey. He had been always steady, and re-
spectable, and rich. The second, &most gallant gentle-
man—spotless, save for one dark stain on his conscience
—was serving with his regiment in India—that was you,
gallant Richard, So you passed your time among your
palanquins; your brother officers+-your gay, varied sol-

handed over to my overseer, My Whip, my chains, my
misery. The owner of Maberly died childless, and be-
hold the gallant colonel returns to the enjoyment of his
fortune. But, meanwhile, what of the convict—the
wretched younger brother.. He seryed out his time; he
suffered his punishment to the bitter end. He came back
again, and his brother received him kingly, because he is
obliged to; he would be afraid to do otherwise. He gives
him some thousands of pounds, he gives him a home in
his house; and all might now go well.and peacefuily but
for two disturbing elements in the shape of women.
Here, first.of all, is Sir Guildford Owen, to whom acci-
dent revealed the secret in bygone days, He will tell
everything unless this wayward girl, whom he supposes
to be daughter of a great house, will consent to marry
him... She runs away; he is desperately enraged, thinks
that you are in the plot, and threatens. exposure and
ruin. .If Ihad not shot him down the other day, what
would have become of us all? And yet you were inclined
to blame me for that! Would that I hod done it more
effectually! And now here is another difficulty—one that
you tell me is.of my own raising. lam resolved to marry
this Florence Random; so fully resulved that I don’t care
what steps I take to achieve my ends. I will have you
arraigned for the murder of the earl. You may say that
Iam myself implicated init. Nay, but you do not know
how many tricks J have learned; how I can double and
turn, and elude justice, and_throw the blame on you,
and escape with the ai { have done it before.”

The colonel was besid@ himself with rage.

“You are either an idiot, a madman, or a drunkard,’
said he,

“J may be all three,’ returned Mapleton. “I do not
care what lengths I go to, orif I harass you to death in
my pursuit of this woman, whom I am resolved to marry,
no matter what it costs me, no matger if it ruins me—you
—all of us.’! ;

“And how on earth am I to force the woman to marry
you?’’ demanded the colonel.

And this time the self-possessed and courtly gentleman
so far lost his self-possession that he actually uttered a
tremendous oath.

Then Mapleton laughed the laugh of a fiend; he de-
lighted in evil, as flowers delighted in the sunshine, as
good men rejoice in good deeds, as the thirsty earth re-
joices in genial showers. 2

“Will you help me,” he asked. ‘Let us not quarrel any
more; but answer, will you help me? Persuade this wo-
man, whom I desire to marry, that I have a vast fortune,
and that I belong to a grand family; nay, that I am heir
to a great title, which has become extinct, but for which 1
am striving. Romance; tell her everything that is false.
You can do that. Don’t pretend to be better than you
are, my gallant brother. The highly moral dodge woa’t
pass with me, and I think you ought to know that by this
time, Ireallydo. I am not joking; I am quite in earnest.
Now, will you do all you can to persuade this proud tiger
cat to marry me? Why, positively, she has so insulted
me that I have sworn to gain ‘her, if it is only to wreak
my vengeance upon her !””

“T will do what I can,’’ said the colonel, gloomily, ‘for
Florence is quite as obstinate as you are, and if she has
made up her mind not. to have you, she would not marry
you if you were the heir to a dukedom.”

oath; ‘and you must help me; give me your hand upon
122?

The colonel gave his hand, théngh slowly and reluct-
antly, as it seemed. : f

After this the two men drank deeply of wine, and
smoked on, far into the night.

Phe well-ordered household arose bright and cheerful as
‘the autumn morning which glowed and glimmered on the
golden woods.

a general favorite with high and low.
Colonel Philbertson, whatever might have been the dark
secrets of his stormy youth, whatever the faults of his

even while he committed it. He entertained for Juliette a
certain affection and respect ; he could not help exulting
that she lad escaped the bitter fate of marrying a man
whom she thoroughly disliked; he was glad that she was
back again, under his roof; he knew nothing of the wild
step she had taken, and he resolved now to set about,
honestly, and seek for her a suitable husband—youthful
and gifted as herself, gentle, weil-born, brave, and love-
able. So far ag he could judge, Lord Linden came up to
all these requirements. Lord Linden seemed struck with
Juliette, why should she not marry him? So he resolved
to try and bring it about.

These were the thoughts that occupied the colonel,
while he lounged in his dressing-gown, on the morning
after the conversation with his villainous brother. He
partook of chocolate in his room, and matured his plans.

Mrs. Philbertson dozed on peacefully, as was her. wont.

Juliette was so fatigued by her journey from London
that she did not rise early on this morning, but Florence
was up and stirring before eight o’clock. She wore the
coolest, the airiest, and yet tlhe most modest ef costumes.
A dress of white muslin with a pattern of ivy leaves, a
large straw hat trimmed with green Satin ribbon, green
satin ruchings and trimmings to her dress. Her golden
halt was arranged with exquisite taste. She trippea
lightly across the park; no fear of Mapleton troubled her
equanimity. She left the park, skirted the wood, and soon
entered the village of Allonby; she made straight for
Honeysuckle Cottage.

Proud, imperious. worldly belle, and heartless coquette,
what led her so frequently into the presence of the Allon-
by schoolmaster? She opened the gate, tripped up the
gravel path, and knocked at the door—the door, we must
premise, Stood open. : p

Jt was a lovely autumn morning; stocks and geraniunis,
and balsams were all aglow; bees were dipping in and
out of the flower-cups. he little brass knocker on the
door shone as brightly as though it had been made of
gold; the flags of the passage were whitened to perfec-
| tion, and everything looked resplendent with the beauty
of cleanliness. :

The landlady came forward, and in answer to Miss Ran-
dom’s inquiry as to whether Mr. Fernandez was in the
house or no, she exclaimed:

: “Oh, yes, miss, he is at his
n.”’

Florence walked in. Fernandez was gloomily stirring
his coffee. He flushed to the roots of his hair at the
sight of Miss Random; it was the first sign of emotion he
had ever manifested in the presence of Florence. How
was it that her heart stirred so strangely within her, that
she turned first red and then pale, and could scarcely
speak? Soon, however, she recovered herself. The
young ma bowed, and placed a chair for her with courtly
grace.

breakfast; please ‘to walk

 

The colonel slightly bent his haughty head, there was a!

dier’s life had doubtless its charms for you; while I was |

“Then Dll carry her off,*? cried Mapleton, with a frightful |

Everybody rejoiced that Juliette had returned. She was)
} | }The porter then retired to obey the other orders of the

maturer age, was a man who by nature hated what was evil, | |

 

“Mr. Fernandez,’’ said Florence, ‘Lady Juliette has
returned, much. to the delight of everybody. I wish now
to resume my Spanish lessons, which have been inter-
rupted by her absence. Will you come this afternoon at
five o'clock, a8 usual? And what about the payment?
Do Inotowe you some money forthe lessons. already
given?”

The elegant purse of silver chain-work was ‘in the
hands of Florence, and severa: gold pieces glittered
through the meshes. With much: hesitation, the money
was paid-on the one side and received on the other.

Florence was desperately annoyed to. find herself blush-
ing furiously, and almost apologizing to the humble
young man for offering him money. How was it? What
was it? She told herself that she detested him. What
did she care avout Spanish lessons as Spanish lessons?
Was some spell cast:Over her or was she going mad? «A
sort of feverish’ eagerness possessed her, a desire to
break the fetters which, unconsciously to herself, seemed
to have chained down her reason, scattered her most
cherished theories te the winds—nay, even upset her fu-
ture life plans, for she had found herself lately sketching
an impossible future, and dreaming impossible dreams.
Florence was proud as Lucifer, ambitious, untamed—a
thorough lover of liberty, a strong nature, at once inde-
pendent, self-reliant: and exacting. And here she was,
crouching and coloring, afraid to pay this man for the
lessons she had taken from him, feeling timid and abash-
ed as a school girl of fifteen, loath to leave him, yet angry
with him.

With a mighty effort, she resolved to fling off this poi-
sonous and subtle fascination. She would speak to him
as Miss Random, the cousin of half-a-dozen earls. She
would make him know that she understood his position
as the humble village schoolmaster. :

“J did not come here solely, Mr. Fernandez, on account
of Spanish lessons,’’ said Florence, speaking suddenly in
a hard; cold voice. ‘But I am sorry to say that I have
heard your name ill-naturedly mixed up with this sad
robbery aud-intended ‘murder of Sir Guildford Owen.
Your praiseworthy efforts for his preservation have been
misconstrued, and I have heard very base suspicions cast
upen you. You see you have your bread to earn, and
when you leave here you must look out for anotiier situ-
ation.- If there be any aspersion cast on your character
it may ruin you for life, whereas, if you continue honest
and industrious, you. may hope one day to obtain a very
respectable position; you might even go into trade as a
bookseller, or you might become a private tutor in a
family, and 1 cannot belp feeling a certain degree of inter-
est in you, as 1 should in any one connected with my
friends at Maberly. ladvise you, therefore, to look out
carefully for witnesses in your own favor. I think you
Should be ready at any time to defend yourself.: You
may have enemies; at least there may be mauy who
would be interested in your ruin.”

She paused, for she had spoken without due considera-’

tion. She felt that she had made for her, the clever and
witty Florence Random, a somewhat incoherent and fool-
ish speech. What might not this cynical and seif-possessed
young man think of her? It was just possible that he
might guess at the disturbed state of her feelings; if so,
she felt, in her pride and passicnate mortification, that
she could almost kill herself.

Fernandez was looking on the ground gravely and si-
lently, there was neither mockery nor Diumph in his face.
Could Florence have read his heart, she would have seen
that he knew nothing of her pride, her condescension, her
agitation; for him she was a mere abstract fine lady, or
visitor at Maberly, who was pleased to patronise him since
she had nothing else to do. His thoughts were busied
with Juliette—Juliette whom he adorett so madly and so
hopelessly. What would she think if she heard these as-
persions cast upon him? As regarded the opinions of the
rest of the world the young schoolmaster was callously
indifferent. : :

“IT should think, Madam,” he said, suddenly coming out
of his reverie, ‘that the true perpetrator of this deed will
be discovered before very long.”

“Did you not bite his hand?’ inquired Florence, speak-
ing now with great excitement.

“Yes, returned the young man, raising his eyes in-
quisitively to meet those of Miss Random,

“What part of his hand did you bite?’ demanded Flor-
ence, breathlessly. .

“The fleshy part of the thumb of the left hand,’ re-
sponded Fernandez. :

“Could you swear to the man if you saw him again?”

“Any where,”’ answered the schoolmaster.

“*“And through any disguise ?”

“Through any disguise. Ihave seen disguised brigands
in foreign cities—men who have stopped my father’s trav-
eling carriage on the wild mountains, and have politely
demandea@ our money and watcies. The same men I
have seen enter theaters afew weeks aiterward, dressed
in the very hight of fashion. My eyes have penetrated
their disguise completely. J have found it wiser to main-
tain silence; but I have known all.’’

“Come up to-night to Maberly to give me a Spanish les-
son,”’ said Florence; ‘‘and I believe I can show you the
man who attempted the life of Sir Guildford.”

The eyes of Fernandez widened and brightened in in-
tense surprise. He looked supremely handsome at that
moment; his splendid face was all aglow with excitement.

“At Maberly,’* he said, ‘at Maberly—a murderous thief
at Maberly? Then you are not safe—your lives are in
jeopardy.”’

He thought of Juliette, and the pallor upon his face
quite alarmed Miss Random. Instantly she fancied (so
blind. is human nature) that it was upon her account he
looked so pale and so distressed.

“Do not fear for us,’’ she said, speaking quite tenderly.
; She offered him her hand, and tiien walked out of the
louse.

The gay belle nursed a great delusion—one that set her
blood tingling, and her heart beating. How was this
strangest of strange stories to end? ;

{To be Continued. ]

£15,000 Reward!
DEAD OR ALIVE!

By Prof. Wm Henry Peck,
Author of “Siballa; the Sorceress,’? The Fortune-Teller of New
Orleans,” “The Stone-Cutter of Lisbon,” ‘‘Harold’s
Hate,” ‘Wild Redburn,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER XXVIE.
THE MEETING OF HUSBAND AND WIFE.

The servant sent by Lady Julia to seek for Jerome for-
tunately took his way toward the rear of the mansion on
his way to the stables, or he would have encountered the
party of Lord Barland at the front entrance; and the old
porter met no one as he led David Sanders, Storme, and
little Orie to the door of Lady Julia’s boudoir.

At that door the party paused, while the old porter
tapped at it to announce his presence. '

David Sanders was very calm, for age had cooled his
blood, nor had he the slightest suspicion that the daugh-
ter of whose whereabouts he was to be told was so near
him: He was rather expectant of some attempt on the
part of his late supposed wife to deceive him with some
cunning and plausible story. ‘

Little Orie was bewildered with childish wonder at all
she saw and heard, and clung to the smuggler’s hand
tightly.

Storme, great heart, devoted husband, trembled despite
the assurances given to him by the earl, and feared the
Orania Hayland he was-to see would prove to be one he
shad never seen. We cannot describe the agony of fear
that paled ‘the cheek and made tremulous the powerful
frame of this lion of the sea as the old porter, at the com-
mand of Lady Julia, opened the door for him and David
to enter the boudoir.

 

‘earl, and David entered the room, followed by Storme
and Orie.

| 0 4*Madam,’? said David, bowing coldly, and deigning no
more to call her Lady Julia, “this gentleman is a dear
‘friend of mine, and I have taken the liberty to ”

But he could proceed no further in his apologies. The
searching, eager eyes of the smuggler had met those uf
his wife. The boudoir was brilliantly lighted; the fea-
tures of all were distinctly visible. The simultaneous ex-
clamations:

“oranial my wife!”

‘Robert ! my husband !"

Rang out clear and strong in wild accents of joy, and
the long-separated husband and wife sprang into each
other’s arms ! ; . ;

At last! Fond heart throbbing against heart adoring !
eyes of love Swimming in tears of bliss! lips glued to
lips} cave illimitable ! devotion rewarded! the fond pair
united !

The Past and its woes all forgotten. The Future and
all its fears disdained. The joyous Present—tne universe
—everything to Childeric Storme and his wife Orania !

“You need make no apology, Mr. Sanders,” said Julia,
as she turned from the happy pair, with a heart throb of
fierce envy of the happinessshesaw. ‘‘Is this gentleman
the husband of Mrs. Hayland ?”

“Yes, and I esteem it the greatest happiness fortune has
left for me, to witness this pure and virtuous celight,”
replied David, with eves that glistened with tears of sym-
pathetic joy. ;

“So you should esteem it, David Sanders,” said Julia,
in a solemn voice, ‘for Mrs. Orania Hayland—this happy
wife—is your daughter 1

“My daughter!’ This lady is my daughter?” exclaimed
the old man, trembling and staring at ‘Orania.

“T swear to you,” replied Julia De Cressy, ‘‘she is the
child of your beloved wife, Emily— who was my sister.”?

“My father! exclaimed Orania.

‘A kiss for you, brave mother Irene!” cried Storme,
frankly and heartily embracing the true-hearted French-
woman, while David and Orania wept upon each other’s
bosoms.

“Orania has: never doubted your love for her, Captain
Robert. Nor have J,"? said Irene, as she strove to hide
her tears—for she was ‘‘dry-eyed” no more. She who
had never been able to weep her sorrows, now wept for

 

ye

“Right, mother Irene !”’ replied Storme. ‘Nor have I
ever doubted her, nor you. I feared you were both dead.
There was a time—a horrible time, when I believed you
and she had been burned to death. Oh, Heaven, how my
soul was in despair’s blackest agonv then, mother Irene.
There has been treachery of the foulest—Renfroe—Basant
—hbut patience—we are to speak of that hereafter.”

Meanwhile during: these transports of joy, and inter-
changes of incoherent speeches, upon which we need not
dilate, little Orie, left to herself, had advanced to the ta-
ble near which Julia De Cressy had seated herself.

 

, Julia, plunged in a reverie, and thinking only of her
own troubles was gazing at vacancy, for she had no heart
then to desire a share in the joys of others. Her jeweled
fingers were toying with the baby-bracelet of which so
much had been said.

The glitter of the gems on the lady’s fair fingers, and of
the jewels of the bracelet caught the eye of the child, and
as Orie drew near she saw with wonder that the bracelet
was exactly like-that which her father had made her
guard so carefully.

She ran to the smuggler, grasped his hand, and exclaim-
ed eagerly:

“Oh, papa ! see !—on the table !—in the lady’s hand !—
a bracelet exactly like mine! Oh, look at:them together !”?

She took the bracelet from its little silver box and gave
it to Storme, who instantly hurried to the table, saying,
hoarsely, to Julia: Reet

“Permit me to examine that bracélet. Ah, the same!
and—oh heaven! yes—the same inscription—‘C. V.!? Ah!
my happiness must be made ‘bitter now! See, lady—
these bracelets are mates!" :

“Irene! Irene!’ whispered Orania, and clinging to her
faithful friend. “Oh, Heaven! did you Hear that child
call my husband father? Can shebe my lusband’s child?
Irene! Irene! my heart is on fire! Can she have another
wife! or some woman he loves? and is that girl her child
and his? Irene! [rene Dugarre! Do you hearme? Why
do you stare at the child? J hate her!”

Irene Dugarre was indeed Staring at little Orie as ifata
ghost, and gasped out:

“Orania Hayland, 1f that child had black eyes, she
would be the living image of yourself when you were of
her age. .Patience!—listen! Never doubt that man. I[
will wager my life thathe has never loved any woman
enough to make her his wife—only you.”’

“But the child called him ‘papa!’—called my husband
Sather! ‘ t

All this between Irene and Orania in less than half a
minute—as one woman'speaks to another, fearing that
other is about to interrupt her—with rapidity indescriba-
ble ! : :
“Sir,” said Julia, aroused from her reverie, slowly, and
gazing at Storme, ‘‘what do you wish with my bracelet?’

“7 wish to know why your bracelet is the same as that
of my child 2”

“His child!
child!” gasped Orania, her heart writhing in suddenly-
kindled fires of jealousy.

“Waitl? replied:Irene, trembling. ‘Wait!

“See,’? continued Storme, ‘the bracelets are so alike
that I cannot tell them.one from the other. in fact, | do
not knew which is yours.’

‘Both! said Julia De Cressy, after a keen though in- -

stantaneous examination.

“Both?

“Yes, both are mine, sir.’ True, they are so alike that I
caunot say which is the one you said was your child’s.’?

“Tf one of them has across rudely scratched on the in-
ner side, near the clasp,”? begam Irene. But little Orie
here exclaimed:

“Mine has that. Mine has a little cross scratched deep
hear the clasp. Don’t give it to the lady, papa.”’

“Al! gasped Irene, with her teeth set hard, her mus-
c'es in Knots on her forehead. ~ “Wait!”

“Pray, tellme where your child obtained the bracelet,’
demanded Julia De Cressy. s

But Orania, jealous wife, adoring wife, childless: wife,
impulsive woman, could control her anguish of soul no
longer. She broke from Irene’s grasp, and throw-
ing her arms around the neck of her husband, cried out
in Sobs: '

“Robert !—husband—you are mine! what right have
you to Call the little girl your child! Your child! Oh, oh!
my heart will break! Oh, my busband—and—and—I
thought you all mine !?’ : ;

“Ovania, she is my child *— ;

“Oh, then, I wish I were dead! Oh, oh! Robert.?’

“She is not my born child |? almost roared the much
moved Storme; his secrets of all secrets tortured from his
lips by the agony of jealousy he saw in the lovely face of
his adored wife. ; :

“Not your born-child, Robert? What do you mean, my
husband??? asked Orania, wonceringly.

“He is my papa; my own dear papa!’ screamed our
little lady, Orie, tugging’ at the smugglet’s skirts, and
wildly suspicious not only that she was to lose her
bracelet, but also her father—this noble man who to her
was as a god.

“Dear wife,” said Storme, in @ voice trembling and
deep, “God is great and good, but.I do not merit from
Him the happiness of regaining my adored wife unalloyed
with some bitter grief. See—David Sanders—they have
refted from my heart the lad I loved as only I, Childeric
Storme, could love a son!—the boy dearer to me, by
Heaven! than a thousand lives like my own! They—I
have given him up to his true father! See! he—my
eaglet of the sea—is no longer with me! Ah!
longer his father!
breast, David—and Wy Heaven, old man, it was like
crashing of rib and tearing of living flesh tome! I thrust.

into my breast the hand of right and duty, and tore out.

of my heart—where I had him sealed up I believed, and
hoped, and prayed jorever—my glorious boy! the son of
soul! my bright-eyed, brave-brained, archangel of devo-
tion—my Childeric! Ay, it was horror to my soul when
I tore that boy from my heart, and said to Sir Childeric:
He is not my son—he is yours!’ I thought 1 must die,
then! ButIlived—have lived to thrust the hand of right
and duty—cruel hand !—again into my mangled bosom, to
tear this dear one—my Orie! my dove of the surge,
David—from my heart—and to say she is not my child !—
not my born-child ! only the child of my adoption !’?

He fell on his knees, great heart, tortured soul—fell on
lus knees before the little girl, as we have seen him do
before the boy he loved so well. He drew the weeping,
wondering one to his broaqa breast and sobbed on her soft
ringlets like a woman.

“My poorhusband! How I have wronged thee!” wept
Orania, Kneeling too, and enfolding the child and his
bowed head in her loving embrace. ‘Oh, my dear, dear
Robert! Let her be my child too! I said I hated her !
Forgive me, Father in Heaven !—forI thought sue was my
husband’s child 1)?

Treue Dugarre had sank into a chair, faintand sick with
emotion. Now she arose and called out sharply:

“Oaptain Robert! Captain Robert! tell us where and
when, and how you found that child, since you say she is
not yours ?”?

“I will, mother Irene. I found her adrift in a leaky
boat, off the Straits of Gibraltar, some five years ago.
Adrift and alone, and almost at her last gasp when I found
her—poor infant! That bracelet was upon her baby-
wrist when I found her, and it has been under my eye, I
may swear, ever since I found her. I gave it to her, to
wear in her bosom, in the little silver box, a few days ago.
She is the babe I rescued, and that is the bracelet that I,
with my own hands, took from her little arm when I res-
cued-her, and the clothes she had on are in Glasgow—with
the letters ‘O. H.’? embroidered in green silk here and
there upon them. And I named her Orania, in love and
honor of my dear lost wife, and have reared her as my
own child, and love her as if she were my own child—
though child of my own I have never had ”

“You have! You have!’ cried lrene, on her feet, and
radiant as a prophetess who sees her prophecy fulfilled.
“That little girl is indeed your own dear child, Captain
Robert! She is the ba®e that wretch Basant told you,
Orania Hayland, fell into the sea from the arms of its
nurse. She is the darling babe my eyes first saw of all
eyes that ever have seen her, Orania! She is my child,
too! :

And thereupon our hard-faced, warm-hearted French-
woman, rushed at the little girl, and swept her upina
mighty embrace of boundless pride and joy, raining down
wild kisses upon the jet-black ringlets, and almost de-
vouring with soft lips the sparkling blae eyes of amazed
but very happy little Orie.

— “My child, did she say?) gasped the smuggler, and
staring at his wife, who seemed thunderstruck by the
words and actions of Irene Dugarre. ‘Our chiid!” :

“Yes!!’ cried Irene, allin a glow of joy. “Born a few
months after you left us in Paris. When you have time,
and we have breath—oh, I am Sure my heart beats so fast
I can haruly speak!—we will tell you all about it—how
she was born and all—and how your poor wife was en-
ticed by a forged letter to go to Brest, and then to Genoa
—by Hark Renfroe’s forged letter—in your name, Captain
Robert,-and how a Captain Basant—Auguste Basant—tolad
your poor wife this darling child was lost overboard at
sea: i ’

“Basant! Renfroe!? : “ :

“Oh, they were the villains, no doubt; and this dear
child wore that same bracelet—the one with the mark of
a cross on the inside—wore it to bide this very same black
mole on her left wrist—you have a mole just like it, Cap-
tain Robert—ha?—her mother thought the mole was un-
sightly; it is not near so large asit usedtobe. She’s your
child, and Orania’s child, and—biood of my heart!” ex-
claimed our strong-spoken Irene Dugarre. “‘She is all
my child!. Ha! hal”? ’ :

“Come to my heart, my Orie!’ said Storme, as he swept
the child from Irene’s arms to hisbosom. ‘Mine! ha! ha!
my flesh and blood! mine own! life from my life! mine for’
life! forever! Nobody can take you from me, babe of the
drifting sea! DoTlove you any mvre because you are
my own fiesh and blood? Ay! I think a thousand times
more, now that | know you are my own, my Orie! To
thy Gear mother’s arms, daughter! ha! ha! she is my own
daughter, dear wife, and yours,”?

“And mine! Oh Heaven!’ sobbed the thrice-rejoiced
mother as she embraced little Orie, whose arms and eyes
clung to her instinctively.

“Mr. Sanders,’ said Julia De Cressy. now turning to
David, “I have kept my promise. Now will you be my
friend, and the friend of my son ?”? a

“Tam deeply grateful to you,” replied David, quietly,
for he knew that nothing except her own interest had
prompted her to reveal his lost daughter to him. “1 am
at your service in all that may be right.” :

“I know you too well, Mr. Sanders, to ask you to be-
friend me in anything not right. You know of the influ-
ence wielded by Col. Hark Renfroe over my son. I wish
you to destroy that influence.” ;

It was a strange sight to see the haughty, stately and
arrogant Julia De Cressy cringe, bend and clasp her hands
before the white-haired old man: whose evil genius ste
had been for eight long years. Butshe thought only of
her son at that moment. She adored that son, and
Heaven’s retribution was to strike her heart and brain
through that son—she feared. Whence arose ‘this fear
she could not.tell, but it had risen in her soul suddenly,
and was tugging at her heart-strings like a living, raven-
ous horror, shapeless, invisible, but palpable.

(To be continued.)

(GoLp Dust DARRELL; OR, THE WIZARD OF THE MINES,
By Burke Brentford, Author of Squirrel Cap ; and a True
Love Story entitled, TRUE as LOVE CouLD MakE HER,
will be commenced next week.]

 

 

 

 

 

Irene, my husband calls that girl his”

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THE NAUGHIY BEE.

BY JUSTUS SMULTS,

 

As Lizzie, with her lips of roses,
Was tripping o’er the flowery mead,
A foolish little bee, supposes
The rosy lip a rose indeed;
) And so, astonished’ at the bliss,
He steals the honey of her kiss,

He wantons there a moment, lightly,
He sports away on careless wing—
But, ah, why swells that wound unsightly ?
The rascal! he has left a sting! :
She runs to me with weeping eyes—
Sweet images of April skies.
“Be this,” said I, “to heedless misses
A warning they should bear in mind;
For oft a lover steals their kisses,
Then flees, and leaves a sting behind.”
*Dhis may be wisdom, 'to be sure,” .
. , Said Lizzie, “but I want a cure.”
‘What could I do? to-ease the swelling.
My lips and'her’s delighted meet;
‘And, ‘trust me, from that lovely dwelling
T found the very poison sweet!
Fond boy! unconscious of its smart,
J sucked the poison to my heart.

The Diamond Collar:

oe ye ee tate |

BISHOP’S DEBT.
.. By ANNIE ASHMORE,

CHAPTER XXV.

JONSON MEETS WITH INGRATITUDE ;
TRE BEAST.

Geraldine Tyrrol had done her best, sweet darling, for
her beloved bishop’s niece.

She had watehed and watched for a chance of going
unobserved to the pala¢e-on» her friendly mission. There
was no Chance‘all the evening, for her brother had come
out of his room, surly. as a bear, and had favored her with
his'companye*: ei ©:

Kind-hearted as little Gerry was, she could not help
being glad when Peregrine at length withdrew, and
Strode about the gardens like one possessed. Just before
dark, Gilbert had come from the village on horseback,
and handed Tyrrol a strip of paper. Stephanie, ad-
venturously flying out, ostensibly for some holly-leaves
for her mistress’s glasses, came back with the news that
it was a telegram, and that Master Tyrrol seemed very
triamphant. —

Gerry anxiously heard him go into the dining-room;
and, good little creature thougt sae was, she ardently
hopeu he would. pay his devoirs to his father’s wines as
deeply aS was usual with him of la‘e.

‘He did So; and: 80 earnest had been these devotions,
that the butler was rung'for about nine o’clock to: assist
him to his room. ; ;

This was, Gerry’s chance.

 

 

AND BEAUTY VISITS

She went to her brother’s

_ Goor, locked it, and put tlie key in her pocket.

She did not: cave what Perry said to her afterward, so
as she could serve the lady whom he was annoying.

‘Then she and Stephanie went down to tlie head-groom’s
cottage, and coaxed old Parkes to drive them over to
Bishop Thouvenal’s palace; and her coaxing was so
Sweet, that the ola fellow was glad to please ner,

- ‘It was elevem o’clock when: the little: lady
thither. “<- mes d

_dt was about three of the morning when she returned.

‘There had beensa terrible piece of work made by Tyrrol
about him being locked into his room.

-At midnight/he had:attempted to get out, and had then
thundered on his door until thé alarmed Nousehold had
DIGken ine 7"

Sir Maurice, in amazement, had asked him what it was
all about, and: Peregrine had burst out like a madman

arrived

With terrible execrations and menaces at the unknown

pérson who had dared to put such an affront upon him.
‘Disregarding Sir Maurice’s cold remonstrances, he had

rushed off to Geraldine’s room, broken open. her door

(which was also locked), and disclosed the fact that she
and her maid were notin the house.

Then he scoured/off to Kynliffe with his man Gilbert, on
his own secret mission,—leaving his father in a towering
passion at both his unruly children.

Had Tyrrol gone the usual round to Kyniliffe, he might
have come across the fugitives, who were just then leaving
the palace; but he plunged across the fields, being behind
time, and missed them’ completely. ; rh

The German officials had telegraphed that they would
reached: Kynliffe by the one o’clock night train, and that
he must meet them. ; :

‘They had done so,.and were awaiting the Honorablid
Peregrine to be their guide to the palace in full force.

‘Tyrrol had quite misjudged his sister’s motives in steal-
ing from the house.. He,believed that she Jiad been in-
sane enough to fly to her faithless favorite, Lord Kagar
Berney; in a moment of despair; and he was brutal

-enougti to disregard ‘her fate, while he attended to the
- Special business on hana. %

His reward was in discovering that he had been too
slow for Gerry; sihe,had, outwitted him,

«When he did come Dack to Viounna, which he remem-
péred to do toward evening of that fatal day, he found
Str Maurice, stern as the fates, lying in ambusn for him.

. “$o,’! snorted. -the old statesman, ‘‘you have turned in-
former, spy, and coward, have you? What had you to do-
With that woman. andcher. supposed crimes, eh? And
your sister had, for very Shame’s sake, to go and warn
her of yourplots. Poltroon ! can the blood of the’lyrrols
run in vour veins? ‘Lis the first time we brer a family
8 ~ 3 * : 2
i Pp enioning enough looked the unhappy man as he
crawled to his sumptuous Chambers. Revenge, they say,
is sweet; but so is the acetate of lead, which convulses the
frame. with death throes.

‘And what arevenge had Tyrrol’s been! The woman
whom he loved had completely escaped his love or ven-
geance; and only the good old bishop had fallen a victim.
He tried to be glad of it; he muttered like a maniac over
andover:  _ ;

.#Pve done for him, as Isaid I would! I’ve done for

am 17? ;
ei Bot his heart sank lower and lower with a ghastly re-
-‘ynorse 41 the while. Lower and lower, weighted heavily
with guilt and terror; lower and lower into that abyss
which is bottomless! _ f :

_ Lying face downward in his chamber, this sin-scourged
man endared his anguish all night long,

’Not a soul would go near him.

- Carter and’ Jonson, having recovered from the dose
which Trooper had administered to them and returned to
Viounna, dared not venture into his presence, knowing
the breach of trust which they had been guilty of.

And Geraidine, locked up snugly in her rooms with
Stephanie, slept soundly, rejoicing in the good action
which she had performed, little knowing how sadly the
night had ended for her dear bishop; and Sir Maurice
took good care that Tyrrol should not intrude upon his
sister in his present supposed state of resentinent against
3 ited allowing & reasonable time to elapse in which his
master’s rage might, cool, Jonson skulked into his pres-
ence to have a lo0k at his patron. He was allin a haze
about the events of that night, when Trooper, Carter,
and he had had such a jolly bender in the servants’ hall
at the bishop’s; but he’ had heard enough since to fear
yery much that he had put his foot in it, !

So it was With servile obsequiousness that he brought
in Tyrrol’s morning papers, iusteac of Gilbert, and at-
tracted his attention by his usual cough. t

Tyrrol rose: hastily from the lounge upon which he had
been extended, and his haggard face grew dark with
choloric fury. _ , : eee ae

Jonson proffered the papers with a cringing smile.

- “Yon ain’t wanted me for some days, your honor,’’ ven-
tured he. “I hopes'as how Larn’t in your black-books
for nothink as I couldn’t-help, your honor?”

“Keep out of my way in future, my fine fellow,” return-
ed Tyrrol, in,a choked voice.

Jonson’s face fell..
«(What does your honor mean?” he asked in acraven
shanner. ee ‘ : ;

. “Be off “Ill not endure the sight of you,” exclaimed
is master, flercely. :

: “Bat vine eee ous honor mean to do about it??? ask-

ed Jonson, retreating a step, :

“eNothing, whatever. ‘How dared you intrude upon me

without leave, you villain?” ;

“Heyday! But what does your honor mean to’ do about
the two liundred guineas which your honor were to give

ea oO eee 9 ; f 7
eRe ntient) you beast,”’ roared his master, frantically.
“Are you going to haunt—to Haunt me with your beggar:
ly prate? Itell you, man, go away.” : :

Gasping, shaking itis fist, Tyrrolwas a frightful sight.
He never used to give way to paroxysms of passion; he
‘could not master so desperate a thing as himself, now. :

Jonson backed nearer to the door; but a dogged obsti-
nacy crept into his eyes, and he took his stand with’ the
stubborn courage of a mastiff. : i

“My, Tyrrol, bullying arn’tyour game withme. Mind
you, it arn’t so safe to swindle a man like me out of
his earnings,” he said. .“¢1liave your own hand-wrote
for to prove that lm your creditor for that there sum, be-
sides sundries, which 1 earned for spyin’ out other stories
and guarding halls, and so.on., Ul show them notes in
any law court, and get: my money; and it arn’t a nice
debt for a honorable to own to, I'll do it, as sureas my
name’s Simow Jonson if you don’t fork over neat and
civil.?? :

Jonson's voice was thin and trembling with rage; but
he said all this without wincing, and glared at his master
like arat at bay.

-“Wretch!”” shouted Tyrrol, “whatam I to pay you for?
For drinking yourself into a deaf and blind post, aud
Tuining my whole scheme? ‘You are twenty times over
paid for all you have done.” : rs
“Ten pounds woht pay me,’ retorted Jonson, pulling
-out his dirty pocketbook, and excitediy whirling over the
Jeaves, until he came ‘0 a slip of paper, pinned on;

“jtem. Story of the Opal Ring. Ten guineas.

“Paid. P, TYRROL.”?

“That's every farthing your honor has ever given me.
1 won’t be chiselled out of the two hundred guineas.??

 

 

_ “Be otf, Isay,’? reiterated Tyrrol, fairly carried away by
passion, ‘and never let me see you again.”?

Jonson grew livid with rage and consternation.. He
came back into the room, and gesticulated fiercely in his
master’s face: *’m dismissed, am I, from my place?
Pm defied, am 1? I’m to be robbed,.am1? Look ont,
Mister Tyrol; it arn’t done yet, and-as sure’s Iny name

 

Like a tiger, Tyrrol sprang upon him, hurled him. on
the floor, and savagely kicked him. i

The carpet was soft, and the Honorable Peregrine wore
velvet slippers; but the look which was on Jonson's face,
as he rose and siunk out of the room, was one to be-re-
ae: when one walked through wood-paths alone, and

night. '

Tyrro) took no heed of it, , He was tearing off his nails
with his teeth, and quivering in his passion at a distant
window, as Jonson shut the door,
gather his effects together. )

_ twas this very morning that Sir Maurice said to his)
little daughter, at the breakfast table:

“So your foolish freak of falling into the river, is’ like
to. cost Grantham his life, I hear ?)?

Gerry raised her startled eyes, and gazed at her father
very earnestly, indeed. :

“Dr. Marks told me yesterday,” proceeded Sir Maurice
‘coldly, “that he showed all the symptoms of brain-fever.
His sister, Lady Jernyngham, was telegraphed to London
for, and I Suppose sue arrived last night. It is all your
fault Geraldine.” righ

And Sir Maurice, having slipped his table-napkin into
its silver-ring, rose and sauntered out of the room.

“Stephanie, coming in sometime afterward, to water
Miss Gerry’s gold-tish, found her little mistress with her
curly King Charles clasped tight in her arms, as if it was
the only friend she had left in the world, and her tears
saturating his silken ears.

“My .déar, mademoiselle!” ejaculated the sprightly
maid; “vou weep! Canido anything? Is it that you
have heard sad news of mademoiselle, the bishop’s
niece ???

“Oh dear! oh dear !’’ sighed Gerry, in the faintest voice;
“he’s going to die! Poor—dear—old—onh !”) and another
burst of weeping expressed the rest.

“Ah, poor dog! who has harmed thee?’ cried Stepha-
nie, rnnning to take the pet out of Gerry’s arms, and ex-
amine its placid corporation. .

“No, no; it’s not Violante at all! It’s poor Viscount
Grantham! Just see what a little wretch Ilam—on, dear!
and he saved me from drowning—on !7

Sir Maurice passing the door, was arrested by the sobs
of his daughter, and the stream of endearing consolations
of the maid, and entered. :

“What now, Geralaine ?? he demanded hastily.

Gerry hung her head, and a burning blush overspread

her tear-bedewed cheeks. She twisted the rese-sublime
tassel of her morning-robe into an inextricable knot.
“J insist upon hearing what is the matter,’’ said Sir
Maurice, somewhat seriously. ‘Where is your brother ??’.
“My lord,’? murmured Stephanie, with a wonderful
curtesy; ‘‘Mr. Peregrine has not been here, It is that
Mile. Geraldine has heard that which has grieved her
tender heart,”” : :

“Ah !) exclaimed Sir Manrice, dryly; ‘perhaps you can
explain now, Geraldine. 1 insist upon understanding
why you are in tears.”” ;

“Because, faltered Gerry, her poor little eyes, filling
up again; ‘‘because the vi—viscount is going to dig, and
1 havents eyen thanked him for saving my life, anad—
and——”)_- :
Here the sweetest storm of self-reproach rained from
Gerry’s eyes, and she couldn’t finish, cage
Sir Maurice tried hard to remain frigid. He couldn’t.
Well, stolid. No, he couldn’t even do that. He was
forced to look just wnat he felt—delighted. :
He never was so pleased in his Hfe before.

“My dear,” he said quite gently; ‘*we shall drive over
to Rathdowney this morning, and call on Lady Jernyng-
ham. You will then have an opportunity both of hear-.
ing how Grantham is, and of testifying your gratitude.”
_ And having delivered his order, this blessed old father
walked out again, and Gerry could have kissed that part
of the carpet where he stood. , :
Stephanie, however, dragged her away to attire her in
a wonderful toilette, and turned her out.the most resist-
less fairy that ever danced in green. ee
Rathdowney was a nice old castle, set in a park of
snow, with black railings runuing round a vast enclosure,
which in summer was calledthe grounds; and there |

 
  

 
 

 

forth daintily for a certain pretty
hard to cage. © - : a

When Sir Maurice and his‘daughter were seated in the
viscount’s Qrawilg-room sometime, Lady Jernyngham

bird, which was very

entered. #4 Ps 3
A portly matron, older than: Grantham, and sufficiently
like him to bring back a queer memory of the tender,
brown eyes which had looked upon Gerry in his. halt-
drowned trance, es EAT eee cis DE ee ead
Lady Jernyngham and Sir Maurice, plunged into a
most engrossing conversation with each other, while
sorry little bright eyes gazed at the fire.
Would papa never have done with expressing his
thanks to Lady Jernyngham's gallant brother, and ask
whether he was dead or alive ?
Atlast it comes. ~
“Has the viscount suffered any inconvenience from his
exposure ?”? asks papa, as innocently as if he hau mever
heard what Dr. Marks said yesterday.
“Oh, yes, indeed |!’ exclaimed the lady, with a good
deal of surprise in her tone; ‘dear me, I: thought you
wonld-baye heard’! .[ was.telegraphea for yesterday, and
came posting down, by the midnight train, to nurse the
poor dear fellow. His medical attendant was afraid of
brain-fever; but thanks be to Providence, he seems much
better to-day.’ ‘
“On, dear me?”-cried Sir’ Maurice in polite dismay;
“how verysad! My daughter insisted on coming over
to-day (though she has been ili herself) to thank her brave
deliverer in’ person; never dreaming—dear, dear, how
very shocking !? } ‘ ‘
Lady Jernyngham was watching the flying changes on
Gerry’s face. 1t was indeed an entrancing study. °
“Ig there any—any danger?) breathed the darling, just
when the lady was trying to keep from going over and
kissing her. 3
That did it. Over bounced the portly dame, and de-
posited a hearty kiss on each crimson cheek.
“You're a handsome little monkey !’? she muttered ec-
statically, ‘though you area fine little chit to use John
so. You are sorry, however, yes you are, you darling !”?
“Yes, indeed I am!’ whimpered Gerry, planting her
blaziug faceupon Lady Jernyngham’s Mechlin pompa-
dour; ‘‘and please tell himthat I never meant—meant |
him to give me up.”?
She whispered it with a rush of confidence in his nice
sister, who squeezed her against her bosom with two aris-
tocratically long and strong arms.
“Now, you precious, you shall walk'into his room, and
say that pretty little speech to him yourself—shan’t she,
Sir Maurice?’ turning to that self-complacent personage.
‘‘She’ll:do hin more good than all Marks’ bottles... Come,
dearie.”

And she lugged off the fluttered Gerry, heedless of her
eager questions and nervous tremors:

But when Gerry stood jast inside the door of a darkened
apartment, with an immense tapestry-curtained bed in it,

with delighted incredulity, she forgot how queer it was to
see a man wrapped up in bed-clothes instead of in broad-.
clot; she forgot how old Grantham really was, and what
@ bore he used to be, and I’m afraid she even forgot how
utterly heart-broken she was about her Knightof the
Golden Hair. :

She tripped forward with both hands outstretched, with:
large eyes brimming over With tears, and ‘coral lips quiv-
ering grievously, and when she had reached the bedside,
she seized the hot hands that were ready for her, and be-
gan-to sob and cry. q $

“Don’t—don’t, Miss Gerry,’ murmured old Grantham,
as tenderly as anybody could have saiz it; “what are you
crying for???

“Dear—dearest Grantham,’? gurgled the penitent, spas-
modically; ‘‘can you ever forgive me ?”’ ‘

“For what, you little girlie?’ asked the invalid, with a
break in his own voice. t

aey was 80 silly—so crazy ever to think anybody equal to
you! Ee

“My darling |” interrupted the viscount, with very un-
necessary emphasis on the possessive pronoun.

“And you have got your death fishing me out of the
river?’ finished Gerry, laying her face upon the pillow
beside—would you believe it?—the pepper-and-salt mus-
tache of old Grantham. i

“You little angel 1? exclaimed the invalid, with sextra-
ordinary energy for a dying man; *‘do you care for me at
all then ??? :

‘Yes, indeed—and oh,—and oh, ever so much !?? wailed
Gerry; ‘‘and only that you’re worlds too good. for such a
nasty little wretch, l’d say—say——”?

“What, dariing-love ??? :

“To please get better, and marry mel’*

There now, twas out, and there was no chance—not
the smallest chink of one—for the:Knight of the Golden
Hair, ' 3

Old Grantham flung his arms round her, and kissed her:
a dozen times. Gerry did not notice that the mustache
was grizzied—she liked the kisses, I verily believe, for
she returned the last of them in coin very much of the
same currency. j

“11d live forever to win such a darling little wife!’ ob-
served the viscount, ignoring the fact That he had already
lived too long; ‘tand I hope she’ll ‘never, : never rue her
generosity.” :

“Th is you who are generous,” said Beauty, quite pleased
with her Beast, “to thus forget my folly and take me back
after all.’? ‘ i

Just tell‘me this,”? whispered her lover, very. softly,
after a while; ‘‘did you try: toescape poor old-Grantham,
when you went to the middle of the plank-bridge?”’

Gerry started up and gazed in horror at liim, then clung
to him closer than before.

“No, indeed I did not,” she shuddered; ‘‘I hope you
never believed that ef me. 1 was troubled, and not think-
ing what I was doing, but 1 was. never that wicked—no,
not fora moment. I was going to cross the bridge and
ask the Keythorpes to send me liome, but I did not see
very well, | suppose, for my foot went down, and I was
in the cola, black water, before I knew what had hap-
pened.- Ugh!’

She clung closer than ever to her brave old Grantham;
many thoughts were in her little -heart;;what a darling
he would think her whea, in after days, he would listen
to her praises of him, for that perilous hour. » :

“And are you dangerously ill?’ asked Gerry, wistfully.

J] thought I was, half an nour ago,”? smiled. her lover,
contentedly; ‘but I’ve had a drink of the Hlixir of Life
since then. I*il be over it before a week; Pll lay my best
hunter on it! Hallo, here’s Agnes! Kiss me once more,

 

my own little Gerry.”

and sneaked off to

was a very pretty new set of rooms, which haa been set |.

_. There was a hesifation—an 3

|. Gretchen noticed this. and t

and met the restless eyes of old’Grantlam, staring at-her |

 

Which Gerry did, and that wicked Lady Jernyngham
pretended not to know it.

She was nicer than ever:to Geraldine; took her in her
arms without the least apparent Cause, and beamed down
upon her brother a perfech snower of sniiles.

Whether she had been in the room, or out of the room,
during Gerry’s confessions, she never would be brought
to say. ;

| believe, myself, that: the unprincipled woman was
sitting on & hall chair all the time.» :

CHAPTER KX¥I.
"AND TS DEAD."

Two gray stone houses, facing each other, a garden
plat between; cliffs on cliifs behing, and the wide, gray
Sea slipping Over the velvet turf 1o their feet.

Here lived the fugitive and her guardian.

The, houses. were ancient; the walls were weather-
, worn, and the tough old ivy cluug,.to the tiles and waved
over the chimney tops. 3

The garden plat was putting-forth tiny. bannerets of
green; the lily.buds were forming; the hardy crocus al-
ready presented his painted cups, and the spiritwelle

breath of February. :

A Jady walked in the garden, and her feet lingered
lovingly among the spring flowers, While her eyes went
OVer the waves, as fathomless as they. ;

In her royal-blue velvet, her ermine mantle, and chee-
ny lace scarf, about the wonderful tresses, Miss Thouve-
nal, walked a being of loveliness aud majesty, only fairer
and more fragile than before. °

What was the secret of that ight which shone’so softly
from her eyes of etherial blue? What was it that paint-
ed that crimson flush, tender and evanescent upon her
snow-pure cheek? What was ibthat threaded the cury-
ing lashes with the diamond tear?

"Pwas Love, who, with magic hand, overthrows the
stoutest ramparts, and throws his spell upon the loftiest
jugnts.

She leaned upon the arm of Gretchen, and an old lady,
muffled in a tartan cloak, trolled after. them—Mrs. Bell,
Lord Edgar Berney’s housekeeper, who matroned the
household.

Miss Thouvenal’s asylum was carefully chosen; it was
on one of the small islands north of Scotland, and was
several miles from the small fishing town by Jana. By
water you could cross a wide bay of two miles or so; and
in stormy weather this was not very practicable. They
had no neighbors, and were as completely swallowed up
from the ken of their enemies, as if they had put the globe
between them. :

Lord Hagar had been a@ faithful guardian, and as day
by day he was admitted to her presence, he adored her
more passionately at every.interview, even when he be-
came more guarded in the expression of his feelings, for
fear of distressing her. _

Upon hearing the contenis of the bishop’s letter to Ber-
ney, Miss Thouvenal had felt keen disappointment but not
alarm. 2 ; :
Lord Bdgar had been carefulto read only those parts
which spoke of a sudden departure on business; and in-
deed even he had not suffered himself to feel alarmed at’
the tone of the letter. a

It was guarded in its expressions—well, that was only
prudent—there was an indefinable air of. sadness in it—
that also was natural. Was not the bishopa man of keen
affections? Had he not adored this unfortunate lady,
and were not her griefs weighing on his mind?
Ermengarde had said so very often, when she spoke of
his kindness to her.

She was looking for him to join them, every day now;
more than a month had passed since they fed from Kyn-
liffe; surely her dear benefactor was at liberty from his
lmperative business, to join them now.

ly that would not detain him all this time; could it, Gret-
chen ?”? BU 3 ; :
And Gretchen secretly fretted, but Said nothing.

Well, they were promenading the budding walks, when.
Miss Thouvenal pointed over the rocks, to the bit of danc-
ing sea. ! :

“There comes Wade from the town,” she exclaimed;
‘and Treally think there is some one with him. What if
he should be my dear bishop?”

.

“Ah, that would, be joy indeed, madam,” answered

‘Gretchen, shading her eyes with her hand, and peering

anxiously at the
An angle of S hidit. | ae
Wade soon appeared coming’ up the path—alone. “He!
Saw the ladies, bowed hurriedly, and went into Lord Ba-
Barenouse. |) eee eee e
They continued their walk a
. Ina few minutes Lord Higa
and entered the garden. ;

   
 

lancing b
id

 

nong the crocuses,
pe eck. from-hi

   
  
  
   

 

  

excitement i
never Seen there before. His eyes avoidea®
nal’s.glance, when he dares ner :

‘her lip. Withont know-
ing why, she gave hint a warming glance, and began t =
feel miserable when she perceived ow instantly he took
it, and composed himself. :

“T have bad a letter from Kynliffe,” said he; ‘shall we
enter the house, madam, and read the contents???
“Yes, yes. 1s it from Bishop Thouvenal???..i. 5 J.
“No doubt,’? muttered Berney, and hastily offering her
his.arm, he conducted her into jer own house. ~

AS she crossed the threshold,looking back. she saw
Wade walking down again tu: the beach, . :
Lord Edgar was looking down,at her with a strange
ee spoke of -worehipy--of terror,of consterma-
ion. 5 os
Luckily she did not see it; she
unsuspicious.
Gretchen seated her-lJady, and began to remove her
white lace scarf; Gretchen’s fingers trembled so, that she
was fain to desist. pees [2gH
“Tell your news,’? she muttered, ina gutteral tone.
“Phis ig a letter from my steward, containing an
enclosure. Bell informs, me that;Bishop Theuyenal has
been away fora time,” , ; y Orb OL i
| Ah,-he has returned now, I trust,’ breathed. Ermen-
garde;,‘‘and is coming to his poor niece again.” . >
it was her dearest wish, to be with him again. Absence
from, him had shown hér how her heart clung to that
grand, yet mysterious soul. She loved to speak of him
as ner ‘unches??and, to fancy lim with her here, in this
wild, sweet spot,
Berney glanced over his steward’s
knew too well what was there.
“No, madam, he has not returned,
abroad.”?

 

was as yet serene and

letter; although he
He has been

Abroad!!!’ ejaculated the lady. ‘Where, then,
my friend 7?
‘Tie has been in Germany, dear madam.
Ermengarde grew very pale, and turned her eyes upon
Gretchen, hoping for reassurance.
Gretchen’s eyes were fastened ‘obstinately. upon the
floor. She was panting with terror.
“Phe enclosure—is it from my lord bishop?’ asked the
lady, in a sinking voice.
“No, madam.??
“Heavens! you are afraid to speak to me!
whom, then, is it??? 7
“From one whe has been faithful to you, and who
desires to see you again.’ kiya
- Berney handed her the sealed letter, and turned away.
Miss Thouvenal. quickly opened it, and read the sfew.
words within. She handed the open sheet to her maid,
with a look of bewilderment. ' eh ave
“Carlstadt is coming here |”? she exclaimed.
Gretchen read these words in German:
“GRACIOUS MADAM,—I return to you, bearing ill-tidings
from Germany. Fear nothing for yourself; all. search for
the' baroness 18 over,/and you are safe, >
‘ “Your faithful servant, :
A Sree 4 “HANS, CARLSTADT.””
“Madam, be calm,”’ said Gretchen, still attempting to
keep up the semblance.of composure. *Hesays you are
safe, and what matters all the rest??? :
“Peace, Gretchen })? ;eried- Miss Thonvenal. “I: have
fears that I cannot account, for—worse than the fear of
my own death. My lord, you do not speak '!.and Gretchen,
you who are ever so braye—you tremble! What is this
that you are hiding from me??? : ;
. ‘Patience for a moment, dear lady,’’ answered Berney,

From

j striving to calm her; ‘Caristadt will be here immediately.

Wade aid not bring him until you should be in a measure
prepared for his visit. Here he comes.’ i

Wade passed the window leading in a little thin, wiry
old. man, with along white beard, and richly dressed,

The ex-chamberlain of the house of , though now
in hiding and disgrace for his complicity in the robbery of
the murdered princess’s jewels, still retained his courtly
mien and grave simplicity.of glance. ‘

He entered the chamber, announced by Wade, and
prosirated himself at the feet of Miss Thouvenal. -

Shegave him her hand\ to kiss, and gazed at him, with
the deepest solicitude. ‘ :

“How have you found me, my friend?” she exclaimed.
“Up, Carlstadt, aud explain What new calamity has be-
fallen us.”? ‘ :

“Madam, it is for your ear alone,’? he
native tongue,

“No, ho—do not go, my lord !?’ cried the terrified lady,
with an agonised look at him; “I can trust these two,
Carlstadt, and so must you.’

“f have to tell you evil tidings of one who was called
Jerome Thouvenal,”

‘My benefactor! Ah, Herr Carlstadt, you strike deep !
T love the bishop much.’

‘“Madam,’? returned Carlstadt, with lowered eyes, “if
it were possible, I would conceal this from you, It is too
painful.” ‘ : :

“I must hear it. Butmind you, I love Bishop Thouye-
nal-so much that [will risk anything and everything to
save him from danger. Good Caristadt I call him my
uncle, love. him so! Now tell me all, and. dare to-con-
ceal nothing, thinking to prevent me from interfering,”

Carlstadt bowed; a deeper gray settled on his counten-
ance as she spoke thus. He shuddered.

“Jerome Thouvenal was obliged to go to Brigen imme-
diately, after your, flight trom Kynliffe. The Diamond
Collar had been discovered with, him.” ;

“Al })? gasped Ermengarde; ‘go on.”?

“An opal-ring was also discovered with him, which had
belonged to His Royal Highness Prince F. . Itiden-
tified him with @ man who twenty years ago was. called
—Blaise.”? i

“What? That terrible robber |’? shrieked Ermengarde.
“Impossible! My benefactor was an angel of goodness.
Oh, fatal mistake !”? :

“Jerome Tiouvenal confessed that he was that man.
He confessed that he had stolen the Diamond Collar while
he was that man. Heconfessed that he had assisted the
Baroness Eberstein to steal it a second time. He proved
that. Baroness Eberstein was dead, by showing them a
photograph of her, which he had obtained from Gretchen,

 

returned, in his

 

 

He pleaded guilty to the crime they charged you with.

snow-drop waved her diaphenous bells in every harsh |)

“That debt, that he mentioned,” she would sigh; “sure. |

‘you have éver felt one like

-mnine 2?

| flying visit to Uncle Phil,

 

 

 

lle was ‘taken to Bitigen after these confessions; was
tried; was condemned, anid ,
Carlstadt paused. Terror limng livid upon his lips; grief
choked further utterance.
The lady grasped his sleeve with one convulsive hand;
the other wildly motioned him to proceed.
Gretchen stood by, a horrified statue; Berney covered
hs eves. > é
“Was coudemned+and is dead!’ groaned Carlstadt,
in‘ lamentable voice.

[To be continued. |

 

[GOLD Dusr DARRELL} or, THE WIZARD OF THEMrNxs,
By Burke Brentford, Author of Squirrel Cap ; and a True
Love Story, entitled, TRvUE AS LOVE COULD MAKE HER,

{will be commenced next week.]

 

Leighton Homestead;
EDNA’S DEBT,

AND HOW SHE PAID IT.

BY MRS. MARY J: TWOLMES.

Author of “Marian Grey,” “Hugh Worthington,” “Rose Ma-
ther,’ “Darkness.and Daylight,” “Lena Rivers,” ‘Home-
stead on the Hillside,” “Tempest and Sunshine,” “Cousin
Maude,” “Ethelyn’s Mistake,” ‘Cameron Pride,” "Meadow
Brook,” ‘English Orphans,” ‘Dora Deane,’ etc., ete:

[Leighton Homestead” was commenced in No. 17.- Back Nos,
can be obtained from News Agents! throughout the country.)

CHAPTER XLVUI.
MRS. CHURCHILL AND EDNA.

Roy had written to his mother on Thursday, and she
received his letter on Saturday as she sat in her pleasant
sitting-room, feeling very lonely and desolate, and miss-
ing her late companiun more than she did Roy.

“Tt is slrauge how she has grown into my love, and
how much she is to me. I am.nothing without her,’ she
suid softly to herself, as she felt that ber dress was not
quite as it shouid be and her hair somewhat awry.”

She had depended aitogether upon Miss Overton to
care for her personal appearance, and felt her. absence
more sensibly for it, - ee q

“A letter, ima’am,’? her maid said, bringing it in and
placing it in ner hand, :

Mrs, Churchill felt Sure that Roy, who knew how de-
pendent for eyes she was upon those about her had
writlen nothing which a third person might nob see, so
she asked her maid to read it, andJistened with @ strange
feeling to what Roy had written of Edna. : ig

“Thauks; that will dO; you may go now,?? she said to
her maid, who went out and left heralone. 9 | °).))

Roy would be there Monday night, and with him the
girl for whom he had asked a mother’s) love, Edna,
Charlie’s wife, . : i

‘Poor Charlie,’ she whispered to herself, and tried to,
believe that the tears which rolled down her cheeks. weree
prompted by sorrow for him, instead of sorrow for the
fact that Edna was found and was coning ‘there to live.
“I mean to be giad, andl am glad. 1 am-going to like
her, and’ Tao like her,’’ she said to herself; but she did
not sleep much that night, and nearly all the next day
she sat-out by Charlie’s grave, trying by thinking of him
and his Jove for Edna Brownin awaken a feeling of
genuine affection in her own,preast. Ze
But she could not @o it... The most she could effect was
a determination to be very kind tothe girl, and tommake
it as pleasant for her as possible. To this: end-she “gave
orders that the largest and best sleeping-roon: in the
nouse- should be prep ired tor her on Monday, and as far
as her sight would’ admit gave it-her personal inspec-
tien, ~ S35 Wile Pepe ke eae Ca
“If it wasonly Miss Overton coming to-nighthow happy
I slyould be,” she said, after all was done, and the day
nearly gone she sat down by the fire kindled in-the library
to walt-for the travelers, © 3 2 sae
It was very quiet and lonely sitting there alone, and she
fell away asleep at last, and did not hear the carriage
when it went to the station nor Se It was

 

 

    
  
       
   
             
  
      
 

Roy who aroused her b, “arms around
ner and kissing her Pf) gy
“Wake up, mother,” 1,
some great joy in the tone a
.| mother; L have brought Hana to you. Here she is—rignt
_{irere, mother; let me put her hand in yours and see if

  

Roy was greatly excited, : something of its ner-
yousness communicated -itself to his mother, who trem-
bled like a leaf, and whose sight seemed dimmer than
ever as she turned her -eyes toward the little figure,
the rustle of whose dress she heard, and whose hands
took hers in their own and held them fast, while a voice
which thrilled, through every nerve of the excited woman,

‘said, “Mother, dear mother, Charlie’s mother and mine+ |

the only one lever knew! You liked Ine some, I know,
as Miss Overton;“love me, won't you, as Edna, and’ fore

' give the deception.”

Mrs. Churchill was pale as death, and for an instant
could not speak; but she held close to the soft hands and
bent her face down over the. young girl who had Kuelt be-
fore her and whose head was im her Jap. « aie

“What is it? Wow is it? I do not understand at all.
Roy; tell me what it means, You bring me one you say
is Edna, Charlie’s wife; and she calls me mother with
Miss Overton's voice. Is it, can it. be theyyare the same?
That the ‘girl

“Yes, mother, really yours in more senses than one,”
Roy said; and then as briefly as possible he told’ Edna’s
story, and: why she had come to them in disguise, and
how he had loved her even when pledged to another, and
thatshe Nad promised to love nim in return and was to
be his wife. nd

“Oh, 1 amy so glad, so-glad! Kiss me, Hdna,’ Mrs.
Churchill said, adopting the new name at-once, and hold-
ing heredaughter to her in an embrace which assured
Roy that all was well between his mother and his future
wife. ‘You would think me foolish if you knew‘how I
did dread your coming here,’? Mrs. Churchill said to Ea-
na, when she was a little composed and could talk about
the matter calmly. “I was afraid it would not be so
pleasant for Miss Overton and myself to have. a third.
party here, but 1 am so glad now, so glad!’ » i

Tier face showed how glad sne was, and she could hard-
ly bear to have Edna leave her during the entire day.

‘It is so nice to have you back, and to: know you will
never go again,’’ she Said; and then Edna told ler of her
promise to Aunt Jerry to return-to Allen’s Hill and re-
main there for atime at least before ber marriage.

“She has some Claim on me; she is all alone, and I
must do so much for her,’?’ Edna said, white Mrs, Church-
ill did feel a little chill when she thonght of the woman
‘with the dreadful name who had written so familiarly to
her and who was Edna’s aunt and had a claim on her.;

But she loved the niece well enough to tolerate the
‘aunt, and even suggested that the latter should come
‘there if she wished for her niece’s society. But Edna
‘knew this would never do, and persisted in her plan of
returning to the Hill after.afew days at Leighton anda
The servants were next called
together and the news told to them, and received with
many expressions of wonder and pleasure. Russell
alone was not surprised, and astonished both Edna and
his master by telling them that he had known Charilie’s
wife from the first, but had Kept his own counsel, as it
was not for him to interfere. :

Mrs. Burton; who called next day, received the intelli
gence quite as well.as could be expected, The fact that
Georgie had known who Edna was, and had indorsed her
too, and even spoken to Roy-about her, and. given her
consent, went. 2 long way toward reassuring her. What
Georgie sanctioned was right, and she kissed Edna kindly,
and cried over her a good deal, and said she should like
her for Georgie’s sake, and hoped she would try to jill
poor Georgie’s place in Roy’s heart, and be a comfort to
Mrs. Churchill. Roy certainly looked as if he were satis-
fied with matters as they were, as did his mother also,
and everything seemed working for the happiness of all.
In order to keep Edna with them as long as possible, Roy
telegraphed for Uncle Phil to come to Leighton, and the
nextday’s train brought the old man down with. his
quaint sayings and original styleof dress. He knew how
it was going to, end, and 80 was not surprised, and he
wished Edna much joy, and congratulated Roy upon his
good fortune in securing so great a happiness.

“The neatest, prettiest girl in the world, yes, yes,—-with
the trimmest ancles except one, that’s Mandec,—yes, yes;
and Roy, Edna must. be, married from my house, and in
my church. I claim that as my right. Never should
have built the pesky thing that’s been such a plague to
me if it had not been for Maude and. Kdna, and that ser-
mon about the synagogue. Not that 1’m sorry, though
the bother has wore me some thin.. We’ve got a nice
man, too, now; had him two weeks, and like him.tip-top.
Neither one. nor the other; Ritual nor. a Tyng-ite, but
common sense. Don’t mind Ruth Gardner’s flammery
more than if she was agnat... Yes, yes, a good feller, who
speaks to everybody,.slaps you on your back sometimes,
and acts as if he liked the old man; and he must marry
Dotty.. She’lk be the first bride in the church, and Vil
have it trimmed if it costs,me my farm. Yes, Dot must
go from my, house.” + : : :

Edna favored this, and as Roy, did not object, it was ar-
ranged that after a few weeks stay with Aunt Jerry, Kdna
should goto Rocky Point and be married in Uncle Phil’s
church, Which bore the. name of St. Philips. Christmas
was the very latest time of which Roy would hear.
“Georgie said I was not to wait,”? was the argument
which he used with all, and which finally prevailed, and
so, after-a week’s stay at Leighton, Edna: returned to
Allen’s Hill, accompanied by Roy, who, during the six
weeks that she staid there, spent nearly half his time
there and on the road, “He was as tickled as a boy with
a new top, and sillier than the rot,’ Aunt Jerry said, but
she liked him. nevertheless, and paid him every possible
attention, and made Parker House rolls and Graham muf-
fius alternately because he liked them, and used her best
dishes every day, and-even hired a little girl to wait upon
the table when he was there, because he ‘twas used to
such fol-de-rol,” and it pleased’ Edna too. Aunt Jerry
seemed greatly changed in more respects than one, and
if uniform. kindness and gentleness of manner could avail
to blot out all remembrance of a past which had not been
so pleasant, it was surely blotted from Edna’s mind, and
she felt only love and gratitude for the peculiar woman
who stood upon the door-step and cried when at last the
carriage, which was to take Roy and Edna to. the iain,
drove away from her door and left her all alone.

 

Edna said no more of ‘the Gothic cottage, but gave her

-was ready to usher her in.

I already love as my daughter is really | V
; 7 aon yy | to be @ little smothered—said to her: Walk in, Jerry,

emerged from behind the door, and offered her his hand,

befuré.

j Soft hat. Even his shoes and shirts were city made;. and i

CHAPTER XLIX.
THE WEDDING.

“Nobody now, Tabby, but you and I,” Aunt Jerry said,
as she re-entered her lonely house, and taking Wer cat in
her arms sie cried like a child. over the dumb creature,
which tried in somany ways to evince its appreciation of
this unusual caress.

She had said it Was doubtful whether she went to the
wedding or not; in fact she didn’t much _beileve she
should; it would be cold and blustering, and she should
get the neurology and be in the way, and nobody would
miss an old dud like her. She should of course ‘visit _EKa-
na once any way, in her own louse; "but to the. wedding
she shouldn’t go. This was herdecision, till , the, receipt
of a certain letter which came to her within afewdays f[
after Edna’s departure, and which changed her inten- :
tions at once. ' ; ie :

“Don’t be a fool, but come. I rather want to see if you
look as bad as I do. ys U7?
| That was the letter, and itsent Aunt Jerry-to the glass,
| where she inspected herself for some little time, and de-
cided that she was not so very bad-looking, and she’a
show him that she: was not, too! ‘So she wrote to Edna
that she had changed her mind and was coming, to the
wedding; and she went over to Livonia and from thence
_to Rochester, and‘having inquired for the most fashion-
‘able dressmaker in thecity, and found it was Mrs. Baker,
went to her at once and told her where she was going,
and that she did not want to disgrace her relations, and
asked what she should get, and if Mrs. Baker would make
it, and how. much she would charge. The price stag-
gered her a little, and made her stop for a moment. be-,
fore committing herself, but remembering a recent rise
in-stocks which had affected her, she concluded to stand, 4
the expense, and when next she wrote to’ Hdna she an- i
nounced that she had a new~-biack ‘silk, which cost five
dollars a yard, making at Mrs; Baker’s, and a gray morn-
ing dress, velvet cloak, and black alpaca for traveling,
and that they were to be made in style too,;and she
shouldn't shame any one. She did not add that she had” ‘
also indulged in a handsome set of lace and furs, and» ‘
even committed the extravagance of getting a waterfall?
This last article of fashion and. luxury came near being
the death of the poor old lady, who.could not make it stay
on without a whole box of pins which stuck into:her head,
and pulled her- hair, and drove her nearly wild as she péi-
sisted in wearing it when alone so as to get used to the
horrid thing belore going among the stuckups. The chest |
upstairs, where the yellow satin:and the fadea wreath
weré lying, was Visited more than once, and the good
damein lier abstraction forgot to shut the lid, and when:
she went again to her Mecca found that Tabby had made ;
the chest and its contentsinto.a nice bed and playhouse
for the two fat, pretty kittens which for three or four
weeks had lived.under the woodshed floor, and only
came out at intervals. The chest was locked after that
and not visited again before Aunt Jerry’s departure for.
Roeky Point, with her new clothes, and trunk, and satchel.
The: dresses had fitted admirably, especially the silk,
which was elegant in its way, and trailed far behind the ~
good dame, who thought it terrible, and who felt more |
‘at home in her’ short alpaca suit, which was made in
fashion, with jaunty overskirt and sacque, making her
look full ten years younger than her wont, and a few
years younger'than she really was. Some of the neigh- »
bors who enjoyed her outfit, and ,the remarks. she made >
concerning it, suggested a round Nat as a fitting accom=- +
paniment to Ner'suit, but this Aunt Jerry repelled with
disdain, hoping she was not such a tarnal fool as to put /
her old’ snuff-culored face under a round hat, not she.
She had a nice velvet bennet, for which she paid thati. .
Miss Backus the ’bominable price of fifteen dolars; she»
should wear that, ‘and-her thread lace vail; and she did,
and looked so nice and stylish that. Edna, who was wait- ;
ing for her at tlie Blation, did not’ recognize her at first,
and looked twice at-the comely and fashionably dressed ».
woman, holding so fast to her-check, which the hackman
was trying to.get from her. lonten Wi Goi Daal
_ “Why, auntie,’? she cried, when ai turn-of the fifteen
dollar velvet bonnet showed her Miss Peppei's face, “how |
nice — pretty and young you look. oJ aid not know you
at first.?? : 3 We 1 ) SHADE!
“Fine feathers make fine:birds,”) was Aunt: Jerry’s
reply; but she did not‘ jook-ill-pleased with her miece's
compliment as she followed on to the little pony-carriage
waiting for‘her,‘and which Edna had driven down herself.

4

asked, in some surprise; for Hdna’s accounts. of Bobtaik . .
and the square-backed buggy. vid not quite tally with this.)
stylish turn-out. “bie vaenoy iy ih
Edna explained, blushinglty, that the establishment was.
her own,—a gift from Roy, whe hdd driven it up to Rocky: ©:
Point two weeks before, and le!titdor her use while.she;
was there. hence Pt
“Love in the tub,\just now} ' but wait till, by-and) by,*?
Aunt Jerry said; but Bdna had no fears'ofithe by-and-bys: :
and her face was radiant with happiness as she drove her. ;
quat'through’ the.main street of Rocky Pdint; and turned

in the‘direction of Unele Phil’siy + “ab ashy? mace
“Phat is the house,” she said, as they turned a corner
which brought the ‘old’ farm-house in view. “Uncle Phil:
talks of building a new house in the, spring—a Gothic
cottage—only, he says if he does there is nobody to live in
if but-himselfand Aunt Becky.2-—) ia sbasit yar vies ciety
“The nigger, you: mean,” Aunt Jerry: sate, rather: .
crisply; and as ove of: the! ponies shied a little jast then,

attention to her horses, until they. drew up; before the .

brown, unpretentious ‘building, which Aunt Jerry eyea
sharply, keeping her vail closely drawn ‘over her faee, |

and feeling a decided trembling in her knees ag she

bk through tue gate and up to the front dour, where > 4 4
s

she intended walting till Rdna could tie her ponies, and '

 But—greatly to her surprise—the door swung open,
Seemingly by itseli—for she saw no living being; only.a » {
oice—which seemed to come from behind the door, and _

and make:yourself at home.” ;
, Then she walked in; and, as the owner of the voice

she said: ‘How do you do, Philip?” as naturally as if it
had ‘been yesterday they parted, instead of thirty years

Poor Uncle Phil had been quite as much exercised on
the subject of his wardrobe as Aunt Jerry had been with
hers. He wanted to look decent for the wedding, and not
disgrace Dotty’s grand relations, he: said. ‘He’d been
looking like’a codger long enough, and he meant to fix.
up, and pay the fiddler.” Nothing in Rocky Point, how-.
ever, would answer his purpose; and when Hdna sug-
gested Millville, he sneered at that, and even spoke con-
temptuously of Albany and its tailors! Where did Roy
get his clothes made? Wan’t it in New York, and why
couldn’t ke go there as well as any where? Certainly he
could, and he should, and get a suit throughout, from his
head to-his heels! Accordingly the old man went alone
to New York, from which place he returned so meta-
morphosed that Edna scarcely knew him, while the very
boys in the streets followed iim as a natural curiosity,
and the men hollowed after him to know what had hap-
pened, as he walked from tae, depot home arrayed in his
new suit of clothes, which made him look so trim and —
youthful, with his turn-over collar and his necktie and

he looked very nice and very much ashamed as he hurried
toward home, glad to be out of sight of the curious, im-
pertinent boys, and wondering what they would say to:
his @other suit,—his very,best, with the little tail-coat,
and the stove-pipe hat,’ for he had indulged in these ex-
travagances, and they were safe in the, trunk whieh the -
hackman leit at the door; as was also the custard-stand i
he had bought on Broadway, because he thought it was :
pretty; and the jinger-bowls, he had bought because he i
remembered haying seen themat Oakwood when Mande.
and Jack were married. Jieyhad kept his eyes open, and
knew what they were ior, and said to himself, that while
much of the Mummery at. the table was nonsense, ‘them
glasses with the water were, sensible, for when & woman. -.
‘was dressed to fits, and @ man too, didn’t they. want
some wiiere to-wash their fingers, which were sure to ges.
alittle greasy and soil their clothes without??? Finger
bowls, which, so many ef his class jeer at as nonsense,
recommended themselves at once to Uncle Phil’s favor,
and he ordered a dozen, and had them sent home with
his new clothes, and showed them to Edna, and told her
he was going to prink up, and tried on his best suit, hat
and all, and.asked her. how he looked, and seemed
greatly pleased. with her commendation of his personal.
appearance. ‘ ; :

“Thad half a mind to, color my. hair,’ he said, ‘but
concluded I.wouldn’t make a confounded fool of myself.
‘Tain’t very gray,is it? . )

“Oh, no, is Just right for you. I’m so glad. you. did
not color it. Il like it just as it is,’?) Edna said, passing
her hand caressingly over the iron-gray locks and never
dreammg. why all this. change had been made by her
eccentric uncle,:or suspecting how nervous and excited
he was on the day when Aunt Jerry was expected.

She had asked him to accompany her to the depot, but
he had declined on some plea or other, and she had gone
alone, while he stole into lis room and donned his second
best suit, and put on one of his new neckties, and indulged
in cuffs and cuff-buttons, and a white pocket-handkerchief,
/which he grasped in his hand as tightly asif it had beem
the spar which was to Keep him from drowning. When
he heard the whistle of the train he was sitting in his arm-
chair by the fire, but quick asif he had been shot, he
sprang to his feet, exclaming: ‘The Lord help mel?
while in the palms of his hands and under his hair were
little drops sweat wrung out by sheer. nervousness and
excitement. He, saw- the carriage when it turned the
corner, but the young girl with the jaunty hat and feather,
holding the reins so skilfully and managing the horses 80
well, was nothing to him then. He only saw thé tall,
erect woman at her side, with the vail over her face and °* -
the rich furs about her shoulders. § -

“Straight yet as an Injun, and as gritty, too, Vl bet

you,” lie said to himself, as, stationing himself by the win-
dow, he watched Aunt Jerry’s descent Jroni the vehicle.
“Then you showed your petticoat,’’ he said, as he caught.
a glimpse of a skirt as white as snow. ‘‘Ancles some
slimmer tian Dot’s and Maude’s, but then old maid’s:
gear can’t be just like the gals; yes, yes,” was his next
comment, and then, as he saw Aunt Jerry come up the
walk, he ran behind the door and opened it for her with
the salutation we have recorded elsewhere,

Edna was close behind, so close, indeed, that she saw
the 1ooK in Unele Pnil’s face, and heard Aunt Jerry's,
“How do you do, Philip?” and in an instant the troth
flashed upon her, taking her breath away and rendering
her speechless for a moment. Then confronting them
both, she’ exclaimed: “Oh, Uncle Phil—Aunt Jerry—f
never knew—! never guessed—I never thought ”

{To be continued.]

[GOLD Dust DARRELL; OR, THE WIZARD OF THE MINES,

By Burke Brentford, Author of Squirrel Cap; anda True
Love Story entitled, TRUE AS LOVE COULD MAKE HER,
will be commenced next week.]}

 

 

 

 

 

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BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

Poor soul! he is down at the foot of the hill,
And despairing, we see at a glance;

Beset with temptation, surrounded by sin—
Don’t spurn him! Just give him a chance!

Were you in his place, and as templed as he,
You might be as bad, even worse.

Then give him your hand, and a blessing besides,
Instead of a kick or a curse!

So hunted, so branded by merciless man,
No wonder he eyes you askance !

No wonder he thinks you are like all the rest.
Be merciful! Give him achance!

He is “Somebody’s son;” in childhood, perhaps,
He shared a fond mother’s caress—

Oh, give him a lift, a kind, cheery word,
You surely can do nothing less!

To exercise charity, Christ-like, to him
Will only your pleasure enhance;

Then as you hope for mercy frem Heaven above,
Have mercy, and give him a chance.

THE MAID OF MENDOZA.
A TALE OF THE EARTHQUAKE

BY NATHAN D. URNER.

A-singie. cone to disturb the monotony of the vast
pampas surrounding it—Mount Castille—an erratic spur
of the Andes, glittering and rising in the far west, almost
entirely overshadows the city of Mendoza, the principal
city of the district of the same name, lying northward in
the Argentine Republic.

At the foot of this volcanic cone, and scarcely three
miles from the city of Mendoza, lay the magnificent
hacienda of Don Scipio di Guaranta. Beside being high-
born—of Castilian origin—he was the wealthiest retired
merchant of the place, and his hacienda was considered
‘the richest and most elegant in the Republic. Uncounted
mules aud horses, numberless herds of sheep and cattle,
browsed, year in and year out, upon the broad and grassy
plains. He had waving fields of wheat, and other cereals;
he was @ man whose opinion the national legislature
listened to, and regarded with deference; and whole
Villages of peons, or slave-like dependents, were swayed
by his will.

He was a noble-looking, hoary-headed patriarch, with
much.of the spirit of his haughty aneestry in his counte-
mance and mien. But the most.valuable of his possessions
was his lovely daughter Inez. She was generally acknowl-
edged at Buenos Ayres—where she had frequently, though
young, queened it with the queenliest—to be the most
beantilul girl even in that land of dark-eyed houris. She
was faix for a Spaniard, but with eyes and hair of dazzling
blackness. Her figure was small, but instinct with every
grace.

Inez had been chiefly educated at Paris, had been in
England, and knew the languages of both almost as well
as. the /solt. Castilian, which she lisped with a voice of
Silver: She was only nineteen, and her hand was sought
eagerly by the highest of the land.

But old: Guaranta had already decided her fate in this
respect.’ So he thought.

Jt was high-noon, and both father and daughter were
conversing. upon the broad portico in front of the man-
sion; the Don leaning back in a chair, and smoking
perenely, and the fair senorita swinging in a grass ham-
mock, whence shie could see her father, and also the
broad pampas stretching to the south, through the orange
trees that girt the house. Wreatis of smoke from the
delicatest of cigarettes now and then escaped from the
reduest and sweetest of lips in the world, but the general

expression of her face was tnat of painful emotion.

“You cortainly should. not object to my plans for your
happiness,” said Don Scipio, argumentatively. ‘Don
Antonio de Gonzales is one of the most urbane, kindly
and opulent men in South America. He is rich, power-
ful, may yet be our President, ane——”

“Older than yourself,” said littie Inez, abruptly.

“True, true,’! replied the hidalgo, tugging at his beard,
and apparently prepared to lose his temper at a mo-
ment’s notice; ‘but he is generally admired, courted
and——”

“(niversally detested by his peons as a tyrant and a
mean-souled man,” put in little Inez, filling up the sen-
tence.

“An there may have been such reports, but he is my
personal friend; he loves you to distraction, and——"

‘A Silvery laugh of irony interrupted him this time, but
the ola Don, scarcely needing the interruption, but with
fast-Knitting brows, went on:

“He loves you to distraction, heis going to be Presi-
«dent, he is my friend; and—Caramba! why dof attempt
argument with a child ?—he is going tobe your husband!)

He arese and paced the broad porchinanger. . |

“I suppose I must obey my father,’? said the senorita,
casting down her eyes. ;

“Certainly you must—certainly you shall,” cried her fa-
ther. “What ho! Benjamina!”’

A shrewd-locking old lady made her appearance at
this summons. :

“Benjamina,” said Guaranta, sterny, ‘to your charge,
years ago, did [ intrust my daughter, You are her duen-
pa. Sheisto be married to Don Antonio.de Gonzales in
two weeks. See that she has no communication with
other gentlemen without my knowledge.”

He went into the house, leaving. the duenna with her
charge—the latter eyeing the former with suspicion and
dislike, “The duenna was in. tie confidence of her em-
ployer, Was well paid, and performed her office to his
liking. j

“Santa Marie!) she said, shading her eyes with her
hand, and looking away over the plains; “it appears that
I cannot too Seon exercise my privilege, for here comes a
caballero! He has jast forded the river, and doubtless
approaches the house. I shail call the padron instantly.’

*tnez looked up quickly, and surveyed the approaching
horseman, whilst she covered her face with her fun, for
she felt that she was blushing deeply.

“You need do nothing of the kind on my account, Ben-
gamina,” said she. ‘The caballero I recognize: to bea
valued acquaintance of my father. He is an American
artist fron New York, and doubtless comes to sketch our
house and grovnds for one of the illustrated papers by
which he is employed.’

“So much the more reason why the padron should be
here to receive him,’’ cried the duenna, and she stumped
‘away to find her master.

The latter must have quitteJ the house, for the senorita
Ws still alone when Harold Travers rode up to the porti-
eo. He was a gallant, dashing-looking fellow, with fair
hair, bDlae eyes, and fine, noble features, from the expres-
sion of which it was easy to see that he had met the little
lady of the hacienda before.

“Good day, fair senorita !? he cried, leaping from the
saddle, ascending tue steps, and kissing the little hand
extended to him. ‘Again, at last, [am accorded the su-
preme happiness of beholding the idol of my love.”

Her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes sparkling with
pleasure, but she drew her hand from him in trepidation.

“Hush, hush, Harold ! my father or my hateful duenna
may be here at any moment !”? she exclaimed.

“Who cares?”? said the young man, indifferently. ‘You
promised me, in the city, to be my wife, and 1 came up
here to ask the governor for your hand.”?

“Por Dios! then tell him that you came for some other
purpose. Say that you came to sketch the grounds—say
anything but that!’ said Inez, trembling with trepida-
tion. “Our union ig impossible, Harold. My father insists
that in two weeks [shall marry a man whom I detest—
Don Antonio de Gonzales.”

“What! that tottering old wretch? Dll shoot him on
sight!?

“Hush! here comes my father. Harold, for my sake,
be calm and guarded in what you say.’?

But young Travers was too much of a man of the world
to require such counsel. The Don and Benjamina were
approaching through the broad main hall of the mansion,
and before they could conjecture that he had had any
‘converse with Inez, he sprang forward, witn every ap-
pearance of supreme delight, and a white lie on his lips.

“My dear Don!’ he exclaimed, seizing the hidalgo by
the hand; “you remember you promised to let me make
a sketen of your hacienda for the NEw YORK WEEKLY, I
ain here to hold you to your promise.”’

The Spanish-speaking races are the politest in the
world, and, though Don Scipio eyed our hero, with some
‘distrust, he returned his greeting cordially.

“Welcome, welcome, Senor Americano!’ said he, “I
‘shall be glad to have you make some pictures of my
‘estate; but shall have little time to give you the attention
you desire. Iexpect my old friend, Don Antonio de Gan-
Zales here this afternoon, with a large company attached
to his interests.”

“Excellent! excellent! I shall bring into my picture a
portrait of every mother’s son of theil!’? cried the New
Yorker, buoyantly. ‘And as for your attention, there is
no hurry for that. I have time to spare, and would much
sooner hang about these orange trees for a few days than
spend them in hot Mendoza.”

.. “Certainly, certainly! The senor is my guest,” said
Guaranta, calling a servant to take cure of Harold’s
Bs oe at the same time not looking particulariy

ased.

f To tell the truth, when in Mendoza and Buenog Ayres,
where he had been introduced to Travers by the Ameri-
an minister, he had not failed to notice, with alarm, the
ripening acquaintance between him and his daughter at

‘the numerous receptions and balls at which they had
met. And he looked upon the present visit with some

gece though he had invited the American to his
ouse,

More chairs were brought, fruits were served, and
Harold, conversing almost aifegether to the Don, was
careful to pay only the most distant courtesies to Inez,
whose face the old duenna was watching narrowly.
During this conversation Harold Jearned, to his astonisn-
ment, that it was Don Scipio’s intention to carry his
daughter to Mendozo on the following morning, along
With the train of Don Antonio, Wiiicu was expected that
revening, in order to bave the churcu celebrations in honor
of the approaching marriage. : ee
He had barely recovered from the blow which this in-
telligence caused him, when a peon appeared, informing
, Guaranta that Don Antonio and his company were ap-
proaching by the northern road; and tney all rose to
receive the distinguished guests.
The expecied visitors soon wound around in front of

FeO

 

; the mansions—twenty or thirty of the Guaranta peons
following them, in order to take care of the horses—and
presented a goodly array of gallant caballeros, with a
number of ladies from Mendoza among them.

Don Antonio was a deformed and exceedingly repulsive
looking old man of about sixty years of age, but he and
Don Scipio embraced each other with the tenderest re-
gard. The rest of the company received the warmest
reception, and they all entered the grand chamber of
the house, to partake of coffee and other refreshments—
Don Antonio escorting Inez, and causing Harold Travers
to burn with mortification and rage by the tender and
gloating glances which he cast upon her.

They had hardly taken their seats, however, when all
sprang to their feet, pale and trembling. What was it
that caused this alarm? It was just a little quivering of
the house, like that which is produced in the narrow
Streets of acity by a heavy vehicle trundling over the
stones. It was repeated, accompanied by a low, rum-
bling sound. :

“Terramote! terramote!? (The earth trembles! the
earth trembles !) shouted the affrighted guests, every one
thinking for himself, and all rushing out of the house in
the wildest confusion.

No; two remained—Harold and Inez. The American
had not been along enough resident to thoroughly im-
bibe the uncontrolable terror with which an earthquake
always inspires. the natives; and Inez, though ready to
swoon with terror, was held back by him.

“T think there will be no more shocks,’’ said he, “and
this, perchance, is our last opportunity for an interview
While these people surround us,!!

She grew more calm, and listened.

“Will you fly with me at daybreak to-morrow?” he
asked, passionately. ‘San Carlos is only thirty miles dis-
tant. I know ofa priest there who will marry us. After
that your father cannot interfere. I will have two fleet
horses in the grove. Will you be on your balcony at ear-
ly dawn?’

“Yes, yes, dearest: Harold, I will do anything for the

Lyyretst
Unrest

NE:

its u Fi ni

love of you,’”? she exclaimed, putting her arms around
his neck, and permitting him to press her to his breast.
“Now, let us escape from the house by different doors,
So that they will not know of our having been alone to-
gether.

. This they accordingly did. ‘There was another-sltight
quivering of the earth, and then all was quiet.

South Americans believe that if they escape three
shocks of an earthquake, no others will- follow; and the
company began to return to the house.

But a gloom rested upon all. The district of Mendoza
had been universally free from these convulsions of na-
ture for a number of years, and this sensation was re-
garded asa premonition of disaster. But their depres-
sion wore rapidly away, and all retired, after night-fall,
in tolerable spirits.

But Harold did not sleep... He had recognized among
the peons of Guaranta a young man whom he had ren-
dered a signal service in Mendoza; he had noticed the
hut to which this. young man had retired, close to the
coral in which the horses were inclosed for the night, and
he felt that he could depend on himin his hour of need.
When he judged that it was within an hour of dawn, he
stole softly from his chamber and across the grounds in-
tervening between the house and the peon’s hut, at the
door of which he knocked soiftly.

Peons:are usually hard sleepers, but ‘Raphael, as this
one was called, soon made his appearance. He welcomed
our hero with the deepest gratitude, and, upon Harold
explaining the nature of his visit, promised toaid him in
every way in his power.

“What I want first,’ said Travers, “are the best two
horses on the Guaranta estate.’

“The senor will, of course, keep secret the assistance
IT render him?” asked the peon.

“Certainly.”

Raphael went into his hut, and brought outa lariat.
“Wait a little,” he said.

He went toward the corral, and entered it.’ Harold
heard some confusion’ among the horses within, but
presently the peon returned with two as fine horses as ever
scoured the savannahs of the south. He proceeded to a
small building adjoining, at which he -procured saddies
and bridles, and in a few minutes the studs were capari-
soned, and ready for use.

The American tried to press some money upon Raphael;
but the latter refused to accept of any, and after once
more esjoining secresy, vanished within his hut.

It was still pitch-dark when our hero was left alone,
but as he led the animalsinto the orange grove, adjoin-
ing the house, a little light just streaked the east.
Everything was silent about the house, and to his great
joy the Senorita Inez was awaiting him on her balcony,
duly equipped for her ride. The balcony was Very low,
and le assisted her down with little difficulty.

“My own! my angel!’ exclaimed the ardent lover,
straining her to his breast.

“Hush !? she whispered, but still responding to his
caress. ‘I have evaded Benjamina only with the great-
est difficulty. She may discover my absence at any
moment.’?

He said not another word, but hurried her on to the
grove, and assisted her into the side saddle awaiting her.
He than mounted the @facr steed, and they were off.
They had harely emerged from the orange trees into
the road, however, before a shrill scream fromthe house
apprised them that the duenna was aware of their flight.
“Por Dios | she will arouse the honse! They will’ kill
yon ! exclaimed Inez. ;
“Courage! said her lover, re-assuringly. “We have
an excellent Start of them |? :

They rode rapidly forward, and had forded the stream
in less then five minutes after quitting the grove. But
in gazing back, the saw a dozen horsemen getting ready
for the pursuit.

“We will strike directly acrogs the pampas,”’ said Har-
old; “it is the shortest way, and we can cross the
Tuniula at its upper ford.’?

Quitting’ the road, they dashed away across the broad
and sweeping plaing, the tips of whose long grasses were
just glinting in the golden glow of mormng. Although
they were scarcely two miles ‘in the advance, Harold was
full of confidence, for there were no better steeds in the
Republic than those they rode;

On and on, over the ocean of grass, and their pursuers
appeared to have gained no advantage. At last the
broad, but shallow Tuniula River sparkled at their feet.
They dashed througn it, the steeds snorting as their pas-
sage beat the refreshing spray up into their nostrils.

But they had barély reached the cpposite bank, when
the horses made a dead halt, and began to quiver with
affright.

Terramote! terramote t’” murmured the senorita, pale
with terror.

“Fear not |’? said the American—his own heart beating
violently; ‘‘you are at my side, dearest |”

There came again the low, rumbling sound. The
ground trembled a little, and the-horses €ank almost to
their knees with terror.

But Travers was troubled with an anxiety greater than
that inspired by the earthquake. The land on the other
side appeared to be wholly unaffected by the convulsion,
and their shouting pursuers had almost reached the
margin of the dividing stream. Both Inez and Hareld
dismounted,

“Better death by the earthquake, than at the hands of
those wretches,” muttered the American, putting his
hand upon his pistol.

Inez was white with terror, but she threw her arms
around his neck and kissed him.

She shriekea, for the eurth quivered again, more yio-
lently than before.

 

‘account of several little gold pieces which had been put

 

Tne party in pursuit appeared to be unaware of the

CADRE RH A OLE

convulsion that was going on on the side of the river
farthest from them. ‘They dashed forward with savage
cries, Don Scipio and Don Antonio shaking their weapons
aloft with especial vehemence, and shouting forth every
oath of which their language was capable.

In another instant they would have dashed into the
ford, when, lo! the waters began to rise, and the low
rumbling of the earthquake increased to a roar.

“The very fires of the earth are favoring us, dearest |?
exclaimed Harold, pointing with awe at the fear-inspir-
ing phenomenon.

Still the waters rose, while the party on the opposite
bank shrank back in terror, all of them dismuunting and
many of them falling upon their Knees. The fire-wave of
the convulsion was rolling under the stream, lifting its
Shallow bed in its progress to the further shore. :

The shocks, or vibrations, gradually ceased on the bank
Where Harold and Inez were standing, and they could
see on the other side the whole pampas moving under
the influence of the convulsions. Although the waters
of the stream had ceased to rise, it was brimming to the
summit of its grassy banks.

‘“Huzza !!! shouted Travers; “there is yet hope for us,
darling !?

They again mounted, both of the steeds having partial-
ly recovered from their paralyzing trignt; and spurred
away upon their flight. ;

But the tide of the earthquake seemed to have altered.
The ground beneath them began to tremble again, and
the whole country before them was moving and undu-
lating like'the waves of the sea.

Harold’s steed stumbled to his knees, and that of Inez
fell dead—literally frightened to death—just giving her
lover time to snatch her from the saddle.

Then there came a shock—a Crashing blow, and both
fell senseless to the ground.

When our hero recovered consciousness, it was almost
sunset. He was alone, with two dead horses by his side,
and a the pampas were still and peaceful in the golden
Sunshine.

 

eran nin erent

THE MAID OF MENDOZA.—DOWN THE NARROW STREET, WITH HIS PRECIOUS BURDEN IN HIS ARMS,

He staggered to his feet, and looked around for some-
time before he could comprehend his position. But at
last he did comprehend it. Inez was taken away from
him. The convulsion must have ceased soon after he had
fallen senseless, giving his‘pursuers timeto-come-up and
seize Inez, leaving him foxy dead. . Yes, there could be-no
doubt, for the dead steeds were stripped of their saddles
and bridles, as well.

He knew that San Carlos was only five miles away, and
that‘he might easily walk it, but his heart was sore and
heavy in his breast. Nevertheless, he set out for the resi-
dence:of his priestly friend,

He reached it after dark, and had barely time to relate
what had occurred when he swooned away.

When he returned to consciousness, he was informed
by Father Francisco, his friend, who bad taken excelient
care of him, that he had been -sick and delirious for over
eight days.-To his questions respecting the Senorita Inez,
however, no answer was returned, for fearof exciting
him in his weak condition.

But Harold hada strong northern constitution, and he
convalessed rapidly. When he was enabled to move
about the little village, he found the people all in a state
of excitement on account of the recent convulsions, a
number of which-had occurred during his illness. Father
Francisco informed him that this alarm was shared by
the entire province. Ina few days, when he had almost
fully recovered, he was further informed that the marriage
of the Senorita -Inez di Guaranta with Don Antonio de
Gonzales was fixed to take place on the following day in
the Cathedral at Mendoza.

Father Francisco threw up his hands in holy horror,
when Harold thereupon expressed his determination to
proceed to Mendoza at once, and break up the ceremony.

“Thou did’st me service when Iwas in the United
States, and I love thee dearly, my son,”-said the friar.
“But you must give tip this mad purpose. It can result
ib nothing but death and misery.”!

“Father,” replied Harold, “I respect and honor you,
but nothing that you can say, will alter my determination.
Tne Senorita Inez is my betrothed inthe sight of Heaven,
and I will win her in spite of all—well, never mind what.
But I start for Mendoza immediately.”

The friar urged further arguments, but invain. Tra-
vers had money with him. He purchased a horse, and,
after bidding his<friend an affectionate farewell, sat out
for the capitabofr the province at once. :

He rode all: day, and a portion of the night. All along
the route, he found the people greatly excited, and in the
churches of the little villages through which he passed,
he'saw the people, especially the women, engaged in con-
stant prayer. .

Although-as yet no serious damages had been effected
by the convulsions, great yawning fissures had opened in
the ground. at certain places; and the province had. been

so singularly exempt for many years before, that it was |

the general belief the country would shortly receive a
great and devastating Visitation.

Harold, hewever, upon reaching the city of Mendoza
itself, found this state of alarm to subside considerably.
In the city proper, and within a circle of a few miles
around it, no quaking of the ground had been felt; and
the population were congratulating themselves upon the
fact (in their belief) that, because of the unusual number
of churches which if contained, Mendoza would be
exempt from any convulsion that might visit other por-
tions of the country.

Harold rede through the principal street—narrow and
dirty enough—and seon reached the hotel at which he
had been in the habit of stopping.

Here, after sleeping till daybreak, he summoned the
servaiit, Who had a very high opinion of e? Americano, on

in his pocket,

“Pedro,” said
absence ??

“Nothing, senor, except the accounts we have received
of the temblor (earthquaking) from the neighboring
eountry.”?

“fg that all?” said Harold, affecting to yawn. ‘And
what will happen to-day in the city? Nothing, as usual,
I suppose.??

“Ob, yes, senor!’ There is to be the grand wedding of
the Senorita Inez at the cathedral.”

‘“Humph! is that all! At what hour does it take place?”

“Kleven o’clock, senor.”

“Well, then, I guess 1 will get up,” said Harold, spring-
ing out of bed.

He dressed himself with more than his usual care, and
then sallied dowwinto the dining room. The influence of
Dons Scipio and Antonio vad kept everything quiet, and
no one knew anything of his adventure on the pampas.
lle expliined, or evaded, the’cause of his absence to the
few friends who questiouéd him about it, took his break-
fust, and then sallied out into the town. :

Mendoza contained about fifteen thousand inhabitants,
The majority of the houses were the low one and two
story buildings .of adobe common to South American
uwellings; but the residences of the wealthier classes
were loftier, and many of them elegant, while the city
was noted for its numerous churches. Many of the latter
were fine, though old, the cathedral being esteemed the
lottiest and handsomest in. the Argentine Republic,

* Harold threaded several narrow streets, and at length
arrived at the cathedral, into which throngs of people
were already streaming. Concealing his face as well as
he could with his handkerebief, ne pressed in among
thei,

He managed to secure a position at the further ex-
tremity, newr the altar, for the reason, that immediately
behind him wasa small rear door, leading into the nar-
row street af the side of the church, by which the clyrgy

Harold, “what has been going on in my

SU EE SS SA URNA om.

 

the intended bride, the procession in whose honor had
not yet arrived.

As yet Harold had no definite plan of action. Wild
schemes of springing forward, revolver in hand, seize
Inez and bear her away, flitted through his head;. but,
probably, like Macawber, he trusted for something to
turn up in his favor.

At last the procession entered through the throng,
which parted, leaving a broad lane beween the two rows.

The procession was very brilliant. The bride, attended
by her maids, all splendidly attired, proceeded slowly up
the aisle, supported by her father, who had never looked
so grand and haughty as at this moment.

Harold saw enough of her face through the division of
the long floating vail, to see that it was very sad and pale.

Don Antonio followed, with his suite. He cast many a
beaming glance upon the trembling victim about to be
sacrificed for his particular benefit.

The ceremonial music and preliminary chants were
performed, and the priest, with his assistants on either
side, was about to begin the marriage service, when
Harold Travers, obeying a wild, suddeu impulse, pushed
forward through tie line of spectators between him and
the bridal party.

- nee seized Inez by the wrist, and looked about him de-
antly.

“1 forbid this marriage!’ he exclaimed, in a loud voice.

There was general confusion in the church, and those
in his immediate vicinity recoiled in superstitious fear,
for they had believed him dead. Inez, who. had been re-
stored to her father in an insensible condition, had also
been of the same belief, but the warm clasp upon her
wrist speedily redissured her,

The others speedily recovered from their terror, and
the two Dons were advancing upon the yourig man with
threatening looks, when suddenly the great cathedral
quivered, as if smitten by the hammer of a Titan.

_ The most frantic terror immediately prevailed, the en-
tire assembly mingling together in a wild rush for the

 

main doors.

VW ~
NISRA
PATTER

CROCUS Towa a LENNY
RUSS STREET

Witit ra
NER
PANY RORY
At hil?
4 AR ag
RAT
Lt IN y!
il hh

AND THE HOUSES TOTTERING OVER HIS HEAD.

“Terramote! temblor! Terramote! temblor!’” These
were the wild cries that made the vaulted roof ring.

“The earthquake may once more prove my friend,”
muttered the American; and raising the almost insensible
forth of INEZ IN Wis Aris, HE Sprang out of the rear-door;
op thinking of pursuit, or anything else but. his own
safety.

Then came another shock, harder than before, but our
hero kept his feet.

Down the narrow street, with his precious burden in
his arms, and the houses tottering over his head, he sped
toward the broad plaza.

There, at least there; was nothing, not even trees, to
fallupon him. He reached it and laid his burden upon
the grass. He had barely thrown himself upon his knees
at her side, when there came a final blow.

The earth seemed rising and falling beneath him, like
ocean billows. The ground rumbled: and thundered.
There came a mighty crash, the earth was firm once
more, and the air was filled with dust.

When it cleared away, and Harold arose to his feet, the
eartiiquake had expended its fury, but the city of Men-
doza was no more. Not a building remained standing,
and of the fifteen thousand inhabitants less than three
thousand are said to have escaped alive.

Through that ruin, Harold made his way with his still
unconscious Inez. . He restored her, however, and: after
procuring horses, with much difficulty, they made their
way to San Carlos, which had not suffered. much injury.

Both Guaranta and Gonzales were among the dead.
Months afterward, when the excitement had somewhat
subsided, Harold and Inez were quietly married by Father
Francisco; so that our hero, beside winning a beautiful
wife, came into a handsome estate—though it must be
confessed that all estates in earthquake countries are
held upon an uncertain tenure.

THE RAINY DAY.

BY MARGARET BLOUNT.

“Now, if this not a little too provoking!’ said Eloise
Dubardy, as she sprang out of bed, drew up the blind,
and looked out on a morning early in June. ‘Marie,
Marie ! do open those sleepy eyes of yeurs, and say if
you ever saw anytuing so tiresome !?? ;

“What is it, Eloise??? asked her twin-sister, lifting her
head from the pillow of her own little French bed, ab the
farther end of the room.

“Tne weather—the weather! the weather !? chanted
Eloise, in a perfect wail of despair.

Marie started up with a cloud oun her pretty face.

“lose | don’t say it rains,’ she cried eagerly.

‘Rains! Itpours! itisa small deluge. It will not
stop till night, and there is an end to our country jaunt
that we-have both looked forward to, for a month past.
Marie, it is always the way when I want to go anywhere,
and if papa will persist in living in this odious country,
where the blue sky is so seldom seen, I really believe that
I shall be forced to bang myself.”

In spite of her own disappointment, Marie burst out
laughiog at this threat. ‘lt is my belief that if the worla
was coning to.an end; you would find something funny
in the catastrophe,’’ said Eloise pettishly; “how can you
lie there and laugh over such a trouble ?)’-

“Nay—it might be worse,” said Marie brightened up.

“Worse! How??? 5;

“Never mind, dear sister, since it really looks ag if it
would, a8 you say, pour till evening, We must just make
the best of it;-and look forward to the country. trip an-
other time, Weshall still have the pleasure of expect-
ing it, you see.” =

But Eloise only groaned, and told berself privately that
her twin-sister was a hard-hearted little monster, who
had not even fedling enough to care for her disappoint-
ment. And so Miss Eloise elected to play the part of an
injured martyr during the day, and te make herself in-
tensely disagreeable to every one around her, by way of
punishing them for the rain.

They went down to breakfast, and received the gentle
condolences of their mother, the one witha doleful sigh;
the other with a bright smile,and a ‘never mind, mamma
dear! We will stay and help you to-day and take the ex-
cursion. another time !??

After breakfast, Marie decided that this was the best
possible time to set the China closet in perfect order. It
was atask that had been delayed from day to day, of late,
and she fancied the active employment would do away
with the regret which she felt in common with Eloise,
though she was too sensible and too. polite to express it
g0 openly and so continually. Accordingly she donned a
creat linen apron, and armed with hot water and clean
towels, began her task. The China closet was large, and
the China very fragile and Valuable, go tuat she was
obliged to use the greatest care as she worked away. By
and by a song rese unbidden to her lips; then another
and another; and ber mother looking into the room
at the conclusion of the undertaking,-found her in high
glee at the. improved appearance of the siielves, and al-
most ready to say that she was glad.she had been forced
to Stay at home. ;

Potiing away her things, Marie ran up to the morning
room and began to tell Eloise how charming the China.
looked. But Eloise, with a lowering, sulky face, sat: at
the window, watching the heavy rain, and Marie soon
turned away and sought. after another task.

A new piece of music laid on the piano, and striking a
few chords. here and there, the melody so gained) upon
her ear that she sat down resolutely to the instrument,
and never rose till she had mastered if.

mother, entering. ‘Your papa heard it the other night
at the opera, and has been talking about it ever since.
You shall play it to him after dinner this evening.”

Marie danced away, well rewarded for her tnree hours?
hard practice by the thought of a pleasant surprise for
her father whom she loved so tenderly. She arranged @
fresh dish of fruit for her mamma’s lunciieon in one of
the painted China dishes; and after luncheon, as it was
impossible to take their usual walk, she tried to persuade
Eloise to join in a game of battledore and shuttlecock in
the upper hall. But Eloise said impatiently that as she
could not go into the Country she would do nothing, and
begged to be let alone. So Marie had a famous game all
by herself, and came down, flushed and rosy, to ask her
mother for some work.

“J don’t like to stop and think that it rains, mamma,
dear,” she said, with a smile.

And her mother guessing how it was with her, in spite
of her apparent cheerfulness, laid aside her own work
and offered te teach her a new embroidery stitch which
the girl had long been anxious to learn. Marie bent over
it with a will, and was surprised to hear the clock strike
five just as she had completed a gay little penwiper for
her father’s use. She ran away to dress tor dinner, and
Eloise followed, still lamenting her hard fate.

After dinner Marie presented the penwiper to her father
and played the new opera for him. ‘

“And what with these things, and the China, and the
battledore, papa, dear, the day has gone. on wings, and I
have not much minded the rain at all, at least, just after
ee of the disappointment,” she said, with a happy

ook.

“And what says my Eloise?’ asked her father, turning
to his other daughter, who sat all gathered up the corner
of the sofa, still listening moodiiy to the driving wind
and rain outside.

“It has been the unhappiest day I ever spent in my
life, papa,’’ she said dolefully; “but then F am not like
Marie. I cannot forget a disappointment in trifies as she
will; I was born with a little feeling, 1 suppose. Come,
Marie, let us go to bed and end this wearisome time.’
The children went away together, and the parents ex-
clanged looks as they bid them good night. Both. feit
that in some cases it would be well to be born “without
feeling,” if the feeling must be shown in the manner that,

for Eloise, had spoiled the teachings of The Raimy Day.

Bef

Pleasant Paragraphs.

THE RUGG DOCUMENTS, NO. 23.
BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

I never stopped on my way. home to see atiything at all. “If
there was.any curiosity, I didn’t see’em! Tnat is, if I except
a doughnut that I bought toa place where we had “Five min-
utes for Refreshments.” That doughnut was a-curioesity. It
was as big over as a table-plate, and astougsh as a pitch-knot.
I worked away on it nigh about half a day, ana couldn’t make
no impression onto it, and then I give it to a dog that a man
had in the carz, and the dog he growled over it and shook it,
and tried his best to gil it apart, but he give it up in despair;
and laid down with his tail atween his legs and his tongue out,
and panted as if he’d had a hard time of it.

I didn’t sleep more on the carz. I was stirred up at the idee
of Jonathan’s acting so, that it toek the sleep clean out of me.
It was enuff to rile any woman’s bile up, and the doctor sez I
nm dreadful bilyuz. He’s been giving me pills for it and bitterz.
But I don’t take em inside. I jest put ’em into a box that
stands on the table in my bedroom—rite handy to the bed. where
I could grab one of the pills or a mouthful of the bitters ata
minit’s warning, but as yet I hav’n’t never grabbed !

When I at last arriv at home, I was tired enuff. Every bone
in my body, and all my bones besidesached! I was dusty and
sey and had cinderz in my eyes, and felt as if I would sell out
cheap.

All the people at the Pigeon Holler depot stared atme to see
me back agin, because, I s’pose, they believed that lying notice
that Jonathan bad putinto the papers aboutme. And Is'pose
they was a wondering where the tin-peddler was. :
T didn’t stop tor no talk with anybody. I jest shouldered my
satchel, tucked up my gound, took off my collar and cufis to
cool me, and started tor our house. It was a leetle after sunset,
and a cloudy day. When I got to the house the door was tast-
ened, and there wasn’t no hght anywheres around.

Lrapped, and rattled, and pounded, and hellowed till the hens
in the shed all fel. to cackling as if they’d laid two eggs. apiece,
but nobody come anighst the door.

At lastI got mad, and Ijest picked up a stone, and smashed
out a pane of giass in the kitchen winder so that I could put in
my hand and turn a button that fastened that winder down.
Then I brung along the saw hoss and clim onto that, and man-
aged to git up into the winder. But I strained myself awiully,
and burst my corset lacings, and tore the heels clean off trom
my boots, but I didn’t keer so long as I got in.

It wasa long spell afore I could find a lamp, and when I lit
it I guess you never s¢ed such a dirty place as. that are kitchen

was!

Men folks never keep nothing in order! He’d washed the
dishes in the warming pan, and the broom was in the preserve -
closet, and his Sunday suit of clothes was a laying round on the
cheers and tables, and one boot was in the cupboard and tother
under the stove.

The first thing I did I hunted the house all over, and to my
reat joy and sattissfaction I found my green bandbox, and m
onds, all right. They was a setting on the bureau in my bed.

room.

I was go tickled that I give three cheers, and danced a Hittle
undrille all by myself, and trod the cat’s tail nigh about off a
oing of it! Cats’ tails is terribly in the way, if you’ve took
notice.

Jest at that minnit I heerd sumbody a fumbling away to the
door, and immejiately Jonathan he entered. I never seed a
man so took aback as he was! He turned pale and then red,
and feli back aginst the wall as if he’d seen a ghost. He was
drest up in a bran new suit of gray clothes, with a yeller and
black necktie, half as big as a table cloth, and he was scented
up with cologne ! :

“Good gracious, granfather!’ sez he, ‘is it you?”
“Yes,” sez I. “Lixpectitis, Don’t be afeerd! It’s vcr lawful
wedded Jerushy that you went and posted into th Lewspapers,
aid sed she’d leit yer bed and board, and yor. ucver had none,

only an o]d comfortable! You wicked, desateful man, you! If
it warn’t that ’m a member of the church in good standing, and
a pertessor, Pd wallop you!”

“Oh, don’t!” sez he, “don’t, dear Jerushy! that’s a darling
duck! Don’t Jay hands onto me! Tain’t a feeling weli! My

neurollogy has broke out in my Knee, and I’m awfully troubled
with my diagram——” . :

“Consarn your diagram !’' sez I, ‘‘what did you mean by

running off with my bonds and the Widder Spriggins? That’s
what I want to know!’ sez I, shakivg my fist at him.

“T took the bandbox by mistake,” sez he. “TI thought it was.
my box of clean shirts and collars! And the Widder Spriggins,

she only went to see her niece that’s. got a baby. I swear it!

upon my honor!”?

“But where did you go to?” sez I. ‘

He looked down and picked his finger-nails, just as he alles did
when he didn’t know what else to do. :

“Why don't you answer?” sezI. “You've got a tongue inte
yer head, haint ye? Where did you go?” i

‘“Jerushy,” sez he, ‘‘I ixpect you'll be hoppin’, but ’d sot my
heart onto having Bill Weaver’s gray mare, and I went off and
bought her. Then, it’s out, if you kill me for it!”

“Jonathan Perkins!’ sez I, ‘didn’t FE tell you that you
shouldn’t buy that annymill? Didn’t 1 warn’youw that there’d
be a fuss in the family if you did?” ’
“Ye-e-s,” sez Jonathan, *fand so there-has been; for she run,
away with.me yesterday, and kicked the fender out of the

waggin, and broke the barness all to flinders, and took my back-

bone nigh about off, too!”

“J wish she had quite!” sez I—“I declare, ’m mad enuff to

pound you! And to tell me that you mistook my box of bonds

for your box of clean shirts! What spould aman want ofa

clean shirt.a going twenty miles to buy a hoss? I'll bet a dqlar

you've stole some of my money out of that box,”

“Only ten dollars,” sez he, whimpering, “and Dll pay that

back. Yes, to be shure 1 will! Don’t be put out now, Jerushy !

Tactilly thought you didn’t love me, and that you’d gone off
with that pedlar; and it nigh about broke my heart!”

“Nigh about broke a fiddiestick ! sez I; ‘‘but seeing as I ama

pertessor, and the Bible says you must do good for eviJ, VU for-

give you this once, but if ever anything of the kind happenz

agin, I’]l have a deviose!”

I went and changed my gownd, and washed my face, and sot

the table, and invited Jonathan to take a bite.

Just as we'd got fairly to eating, there was a rap af the front
door. Jonothan colored up, and started for to answer it, but I

took him by the shoulder and sot him down agin, and went

myself. i

Aud who Go you think was there? Why it was Almiry Jane

Perkinz, old Sol Perkinz’s youngest gal, and a terble high-flyer

she is, too. Iasked her what she wanted, and she simpered,

and giggled,and sed she wanted to inquire if Mr.Perkinz was in,

“Ves,” sez I, “he’s in, and he'll stay in for the present! what

do you want of him?” :

‘He invited me to go toa party over to Brown’s with him,”
sez she, as bold as brass, “and seeing as he didn’t come to time,
I thought I'd jest step over and see what had belated him!”
“Invited you to a party, did he?” sez I; *‘you shameless huz-
zy, you! you'd ort to be hung, both of ye! Jonathan,” sez I;
“3 it possible that you’ve took to galivanting other women, and
your lawful wedded Jerushy still in the world? On natral
man! is this true?”

Jonathan looked shepish, and Almiry Jane laffed in my face.

“T thought you'd gone off with that pedlar,’? saysJonathan.

“and railly, thought it wasn’t no harm to take time by the

forelock, and—and kinder be a looking out for a seccont wife.”

I was mad as a hatter, but I controlled my temper. I’ve got-
a good deal of control about me when I take a notion.

“Aimiry Jane,” sez I, “you go home and take off them flum-
rydiddiez. and help your ma peel apples to dry. Dil take care
of Jonathan Perkins. lm to home myself, now,” and without
waiting to hear what she had to say, Tbanged the door to and

locked it.

Then I. went back to Jonathan, and you’d better believe I

gave him asinging. 1 guess he wished Almiry had been in Hal-

ifax afore he had seed her.

He asked my forgiveness as humble as could be, and sed he'd

never, never stray from his beloved Jerushy agin, and I furgive

him.

“We're good friends now, and Jonathan is as meek and clever
@ nan as ever you seed. . :
He don’t menshun Almiry Jane, now, but I’ve hearn sed that
she takes on wonderfully about him, Land sake! if she onky
knowed what a snorer he is, and - how he swears when his
corns is teched. she’d thank her stars that I cum back when I
did, and purvented matters from going any furder.. JERUSHY.
P. §.—Jonathan got nigh about kicked into shoe-strings with
that Weaver mare, yesterday, and to-day I've been and sold her
for a yoke of steers. Made a good bargin, I take it, for it was
cheap to-git rid of her .at any price. If we'd kept her a week
longer, asiike as notyer Aunt Jerushy wouid have been a
widder. J. R.

HK WOULDN'T SARVE.

ata town meeting, an old fellow, whom we
shall call Mr. Perkins, was informed by the moderator that he
had been elected a surveyor of highways. He arose and said:
“Mr. Moderator, I shall incline.” The moderator expressed
great satisfaction, and boped that he would enter upon the
duties of his office, as some of the roads were in bad condition.
“T tell ye,” responded our hero, “I inciine.” ‘Very. glad,” con-
tinued the moderator. “I think I can assure you that the town
willbe very grateful for pur services.’? Mr. Moderator, I
told ye twice that I inclined, and I sware I won t sarve.

What men in the employ of Queen Vic oria have that appella-
tion given them which is very similar to the pronunciation of
the name of certain cliffs or hights in New York State?
Answer: The Palisades—Palace aids.

RIDICULING HIS LEGS.
Thad a cousin once, who grew up in the days of tight-legged
pants. He followed the fashion, albeit his legs were little larger
than ‘pea-sticks.”?. But be was a brave fellow, fall of fun, good
atretort, and willing to give and take. Goiog up a hillone day,
he was overtaken by a merry wagoner, on his way to Augusta,
with cotton. The wagoner looked at him along time, and at
last said, “Young friend! tell me, if you please; air your legs
swelled, or air they jist naturally large?’ “Naturally large,”
says John, nota bit dashed, and he strode onward with the
majesty of an elephant. TIBBS.

To xP. P.. Conrrisutors.—The following MSS. are received
and accepted: ‘Run, tig Fraid and Little Fraid;’” ‘Water
melons;” “Jokes,” by Joker; “Why He Did not Get the Hooks;”
“Jokes,” by J. A. J........ ‘the following are respectfuily de-
elined: ‘Quite Satisfied; “Pat and the Bull;” “The Clergyman
ina Fix;’ “Epitaph,” “fish Ready Wit,” “Lines Worked on
a Rug?’ “Simplicity;’* “Colonel Crinkley’s Horse,’ ‘Very

Two years ago,

 

 

gained entrance. This would also place him; very hear

“J am glad that you have learned that, dear,” said her

Ancient.’